_Ricci returns to Venice.--Her metamorphosis and my reflections on
it.--Sacchi entreats to have the "Droghe d'Amore," and I abandon it to
him, in order to save myself from persecution.--The play is read by me
before the actors._
Autumn brought the actors back again as usual; and I composed a prologue
for the opening of their theatre, which was recited by Mme. Ricci. I
used to meet that actress in the rooms behind the scenes, and was much
struck by the singular change which had come over her. She continued to
do everything she could to annoy me; and I kept wondering how it was
that she had managed to conceal her true nature so cleverly during the
five years of our friendship. Now she openly bragged about the presents
she received; the wax-candles which gave light to her apartment; the
exquisite wines, perfect coffee, boxes of bonbons, refined chocolate,
and other dainties which furnished her repasts. She even went to the
length of inviting that old satyr Sacchi to her house, adding, in order
to insult me: "You will find no tiresome moral preachers on the
_convenances_ to frighten you away!" While as anxious as ever to lure me
back, she piqued herself on letting it be understood that she had given
me my dismissal. Indeed, I found it somewhat difficult to treat the
woman with that reserved civility which I wished to preserve toward her
in public.
The amusement I enjoyed in studying her new ways and manners compensated
for these gnat-bites. She had become in six months shameless and
affected, as meddlesome and garrulous as a magpie. She pretended to have
learned all kinds of important sciences, and gravely informed us that
the game _rocambol_ was derived from two English words. She had left off
wearing drawers, she said, because it was healthy to ventilate the body,
adding details of the most comical indecency. Always dreaming about
Paris, Venice had become a kind of sewer in her opinion. The Venetians
and Italians in general were a race of stupid mediocrities,
unenlightened and insupportable. "I am dying to get to Paris!" she
exclaimed; "there the rich financiers fling purses full of louis d'or at
actresses with as little regard as one flings a pear in Italy." And then
to show how well she had got rid of prejudices: "Ah! blessed power of
making love without the checks of a misguided education! To make love
through our lifetime is the supreme happiness of mortals!" Not a
word or a thought for her husband and two children.
[Illustration: COVIELLO (1550)
_Illustrating the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, or Impromptu Comedy_]
Every evening she filled the theatre with such a potent smell of musk,
that people complained and said it gave them the headache. "What a
prejudice!" she cried with a grimace in what she thought the French
style. "At Paris everything smells of musk, down to the very trees in
the Tuilleries gardens, against which ladies may have leant a moment."
She was taking French lessons; and her retentive memory made her catch
up phrases, which she flung about with volubility. Paris entered into
everything she said. She modelled her gait and action and tone of voice
upon what she conceived to be the Parisian manner, producing a most
laughable caricature which spoiled her acting. I felt really sorry for
her, while observing this progressive deterioration in her art. She had
been an excellent comedian in the Italian style, and would certainly
have been appreciated on the stage at Paris. Now she had become an ape
of the French race, surcharged with affectation, and unsuccessful in her
travesty. It is impossible, I thought, that the Parisians, who require
an Italian actress, and not a mongrel imitation of themselves, will put
up with her. This prognostication, to my sincere regret, was verified
when she appeared in that metropolis.
We had reached the first days of November in the year 1776, and Sacchi's
receipts were languishing. He had been spoiled by getting gratis at my
hands two or three pieces annually, which found favour with the public.
This made him careless about supplying himself with novelties; while I
was so engaged with law business that I had no time to dramatise my
_Metafisico_ and _Bianca di Melfi_. In fact, I had nothing on hand but
the _Droghe d'Amore_. Pestered by perpetual applications for this
comedy, in an evil moment I drew it from its sepulchre and tossed it
over to the _capocomico_. I told him that he might take the manuscript
as a gift, but that if the play failed before the public, as I thought
it would, I should never exercise my pen again on compositions for the
stage.
It was impossible to foresee that a chain of untoward circumstances
would convert this harmless drama into an indecent personal satire upon
Signor Gratarol. Mendacious and vindictive meddling on the part of an
infuriated actress, false steps and ill-considered opposition on the
part of the man whom she deceived, the pique of great folk who disliked
him, and the ingenuity of comedians eager for pecuniary gains, effected
the transformation. I was placed in a false light--shown up to public
curiosity as the prime agent in a piece of vulgar retaliation, the
victim of a weak and jealous fancy. If I could have divined what lay
beyond the scope of divination, I swear to God that I should have flung
that comedy into the flames rather than let it become the property of a
_capocomico_.
Far be it from me to assert that Gratarol was not brought upon the stage
in that very comedy of my creation. He certainly was. But he owed this
painful distinction to his own bad management, to the credulity with
which he drank the venom of a spiteful woman's tongue, to the steps he
took for prohibiting my play which roused the curiosity of the whole
city and gave it a _succes de scandale_, to the enmity of great people
whom he had imprudently defamed, and finally to the artifices of an
acting company who saw their way to making money out of these
conflicting interests. I was victimised, as will appear in the course of
my narration, for the truth of which I can refer to a crowd of worthy
witnesses. I lost control over my play. I saw it bandied about from hand
to hand. Condemned to inactivity by magistrates of the State, I had it
turned before my eyes, against my will, into a vile engine for
inflicting pain upon a person of whom I had never once thought while
composing it. Indeed, the part I played in the affair would furnish
forth the subject of another comedy, with me for protagonist.
Well, soon after I had placed the manuscript in Sacchi's hands, he told
me that it had passed the official revision and had been licensed for
the stage. Only some eight or ten lines were struck out. This happens to
every play which is referred to the censors of the State. Nothing
occurred which called its character in question, or suggested that it
was more than a comedy with traits of satire upon society in general.
Sacchi announced the new play to the public, and its capricious title
whetted their interest. I distributed the roles between the actors of
the troupe; but later on, this assignment of parts was altered, without
my knowledge or consent, in order to fit the cap which Signor Gratarol
constructed for himself upon its fabricator's head. The actors saw their
way to pointing a caricature, undesigned by me, by shifting the role of
Don Adone from one player to another. Looking only to receipts at the
door of the theatre, they were dead to every other consideration.
After distributing the roles, I had to read the comedy aloud. This is
necessary; for players are so made among us that, unless they catch the
spirit of their parts from the author, they are sure to spoil them by
some misconception of their values. The reading took place at Sacchi's
lodgings. Mme. Ricci appeared in all her glory, and established herself
at my right hand. I shall not enlarge upon the characters and plot of
the _Droghe d'Amore_, because the play will be found among my works in
print. Suffice it to say, that when I had toiled onward to the sixteenth
scene of the first act, where Don Adone makes his appearance on the
stage, Mme. Ricci began to writhe upon her seat. One would have imagined
that she had never heard the play before, and that this character took
her by surprise. Yet more than a year ago she had been introduced to Don
Adone, as I have said above, at my own house.[59]
I continued my reading. But whenever Don Adone turned up--and his part
is merely episodical in the drama--Mme. Ricci marked her agitation by
still more extraordinary signs of impatience. She muttered between her
teeth and moved about upon her chair, in a way which made me think that
she was indisposed. At last I turned to her and said: "Madam, you seem
to be more bored than I am by this reading!" The only answer which I got
was a shrug of the shoulders, a turn of the body to the side away from
me, and an exclamation: "Oh, 'tis nothing, nothing!"
The reading continued. At every word which Don Adone uttered, Mme. Ricci
repeated her grimaces and contortions of the body. I bluntly reminded
her that she knew all about this personage twelve months and more ago,
and that she had urged me to complete the play. Forced to say something,
she put on a sour sardonic smile, and murmured: "Well, well! That Don
Adone of yours, that Don Adone of yours!"
Like lightning, the truth flashed upon my brain. I saw what she was up
to. In spite of having been, as it were, an accomplice in my comedy
those many months before, she meant to fix the character of Don Adone
upon Signor Gratarol. This was her plan for rousing his resentment
against myself, for revenging herself for my indifference, and for
stirring up a scandal worse than all the humdrum scenes my flat comedy
contained.
I finished my reading, as may be imagined, in a perfunctory manner,
flung the manuscript down upon the table, and told the assembled actors
that I did not expect the piece to succeed. It was far too feeble and
too prolix. All the same, I had given it away to them, and they must do
as they liked with it.
Sacchi, on the spot, gave orders for the copying of the several parts,
which were to be distributed as I had settled. The party then broke up,
and I kept my eyes upon Signora Ricci. She seemed in a great hurry to
get away, as though some one were waiting for her, and I saw that she
was bent on mischief.