_Gratarol's case against me, which had no foundation in fact or
verity.--His chivalrous way of meeting the difficulty, which had arisen
between us through his own bad management._
On the evening of the 17th of January, the _Droghe d'Amore_ was given
again, as strict orders from the Government made necessary. I kept away
from the theatre, and passed my time at S. Gio. Grisostomo, where I
heard, to my vexation, that S. Salvatore was thronged with spectators.
However, I contented myself with thinking that this was the last night
of the notorious comedy.
When my servant came to call me next morning, he volunteered this
information, much to my astonishment: "Your comedy, sir, is going to be
played again to-night at S. Salvatore." "How do you know that?" I asked.
"I read the posters just now set up at the Rialto."
While putting on my clothes in haste to see if this had not been some
blunder of the bill-stickers, I was interrupted by the visit of two
friends, the patrician Paolo Balbi and Signor Raffaelle Todeschini, a
young cittadino of the highest probity. They came to congratulate me on
the repetition of my play, which had been called for last evening by an
overwhelming and irresistible vote of the audience. On hearing this
news, which admitted of no doubt, I felt the blood freeze in my veins.
"You do not know," I said to Signor Balbi, "what sort of fish are
stewing in my kettle. I gave my word yesterday that the play should not
be repeated. How was I to imagine that my blameless reputation would
have to suffer by an actor's breach of faith?" My friends tried to
comfort me and soothe me down, while I, oblivious of all the laws of
politeness, kept fastening my shoe-buckles, washing my hands, and
busying myself about my toilet. I was desperately impatient to get out,
and do the utmost in my power to remedy the mischief.
This was my one thought, as the above-named gentlemen can bear me
witness, when a new turn was given to affairs by a fresh act of Signor
Gratarol's imprudence and vindictive rancour. My servant entered and
announced that a footman was waiting outside with a letter which he had
orders to deliver into my own hands. I left my room, and found the man
there at the top of the staircase. He handed me the letter, and stood
waiting for my answer. I saw at a glance, before I opened it, from whom
it came, broke the seal, and read the following missive:[71]
"SIR COUNT--Pursuant to the arguments I maintained in your house
two mornings ago, the playbill published yesterday entitles me to
say that in the whole course of my life I have never met with
hypocrisy and imposture equal to yours; and the playbill published
this morning proclaims you on the face of it to be no gentleman and
a liar.
"Go on, I pray. Satiate your vengeance--vengeance begotten by an
amorous passion, in part concealed from the public gaze, possibly
not credited by some folk, and which is known to only me in all its
real extent. Continue, I say, to rear your masked forehead in the
front rank of all those foes who envy, calumniate, persecute, and
hate me. To-day it is your turn to laugh. Perhaps this will not
always be so. Perhaps the vicissitudes of human life will one day
reverse your unworthy triumph and my unmerited oppression.
"From my house, the 18th of January 1776/1777,
"PIETRO ANTONIO GRATAROL."
Having perused this fine flower of Pietro Antonio Gratarol, nobleman of
Padua, his eloquence, I folded up the paper, and told the footman, with
a smile which concealed my boiling indignation, and saved him from
being kicked down the staircase at the risk of his neck, that he might
go back to his master and say that I fully understood the contents of
his note.
Returning to the room where I had left Balbi and Todeschini, I put
Gratarol's letter into the hands of the former, and said: "Your
Excellency will learn from this to what annoyances I am exposed by the
recall of my comedy." He turned pale, and so did Todeschini, when they
gathered the contents of the cowardly, disgusting document.
Balbi asked me what I meant to do. I replied, putting the last touches
to my toilet, that the right thing for me to do would be to compel
Sacchi at once to play my comedy every night until the end of the
Carnival. "Gratarol's letter has certainly been spread broadcast before
now over Venice. I do not mean to give him an answer. What I propose
would be the best means of punishing Sacchi for his want of faith--since
the theatre will certainly be empty--and Gratarol for his delirious
importunity. But, if your Excellency permits me, I shall walk abroad. I
should like to let a certain lady, who bolstered up my comedy against my
will, and who protected a reckless avaricious comedian--I should like
her to see and read in this letter to what she has condemned my
peaceable nature, incapable of injuring a fly, by her wrong-headed,
whimsical, unbecoming pique against a madman."
While I spoke thus to my friend Balbi, the blood was boiling in my
veins. Concealed from him, I had quite other plans in preparation. They
were not consistent with philosophy; they were not in agreement with the
Gospel. Some time later, but not till many days had passed and these
heats had cooled, I recognised and condemned them as wrong and reckless,
begotten by the blindness of the natural man deprived of reason for the
moment.[72]
Signor Balbi offered to accompany me to the noble lady, Signora Caterina
Dolfin Tron; and I was rejoiced to have so excellent a witness of our
interview. On presenting ourselves, and being received with her
customary gaiety, I contented myself with these few words: "Your
Excellencies have been amusing yourselves with the _Droghe d'Amore_, and
its recall to the stage. The amusements which fall to my poor share are
these." I handed her the letter.
She cast her eyes over the page, and I could read upon her countenance
and by the trembling of her hands, how deeply she was moved. It is right
for me to add that, strongly as I condemned the revengeful caprice
against Signor Gratarol which caused this lady to involve me in a series
of revolting annoyances, I felt a thrill of gratitude for the cordial
emotions expressed at that moment by her every gesture. I saw that she
felt for me. I saw that, although her judgment had been spoiled by a
course of unwholesome reading, and by conversation with the vaunted
_esprits forts_ of our "unprejudiced" age, her heart remained in the
right place and uncontaminated.[73]
When she had finished reading, she only said: "Leave this paper in my
hands." I obeyed, and took my departure.
It is needless to add that innumerable copies of the precious letter
flew about the city. There was not a house, a shop, in which Signor
Gratarol's chivalrous proclamation of his rights and wrongs did not form
the theme of conversation.
Perhaps I ought to have used circumspection while taking my walks alone
about the city, according to my wont. I ought perhaps to have reflected
that my antagonist was a man who showed his prowess mainly in
ambuscades.[74] But it was never in my nature to know what fear is; and
the perils to which I exposed myself while serving in Dalmatia had
inured me to ignore it. Therefore, returning to what I hinted some few
pages back, I confess that my one burning desire, concealed from every
friend, was to find myself face to face with the author of that brutal
cartel.[75] Day and night, alone and unattended, I prowled around his
casino at S. Mose, nursing this condemnable desire within my breast. Of
a truth, I should have been forced to set fire to the house before I
drew him from its shelter. That I shall prove; but I was not an
incendiary.
Doctor Andrea Comparetti, professor of medicine now in the University of
Padua, expressed astonishment when he met me pacing the darkest and the
most perilous alleys on the night of that famous 18th of January. He
lectured me upon my want of prudence, and reminded me of the
circumstances in which I was placed. I laughed the matter off, and he
had to leave me with a smile. Let no one imagine, however, that I am
boasting of the desire which burned my blood, or that I record my
nocturnal wanderings as a sign of heroism. I have never been a
gasconading braggart. From a man who could pen a letter like Gratarol's
I had to expect some stab in the dark. It was only a blind human
weakness which prompted this temerity. I know well enough how to
distinguish recklessness from courage.