The Bon and Berlaffa Company, in which my father was engaged,
alternated in its repertory between the comedies of Goldoni and the
tragedies of Alfieri.
One evening the "Donne Curiose" by Goldoni was to be given, but the
actor who was to take the harlequin's part, represented in that piece
by a stupid slave called Pasquino, fell sick a few hours before the
curtain was to rise. The company had been together for a few days
only, and it was out of the question to substitute another play. It
had been decided to close the theatre for that night, when Berlaffa
asked:
"Why couldn't your Tom take the part?" My father said that there was
no reason why he shouldn't, but that Tom had never appeared in public,
and he didn't know whether he had the courage.
The proposition was made to me, and I accepted on the spot, influenced
to no little extent by a desire to please the managers, who in my eyes
were people of great importance. Within three hours, with my iron
memory, I had easily mastered my little part of Pasquino, and, putting
on the costume of the actor who had fallen ill, I found myself a
full-fledged if a new performer. I was to speak in the Venetian
dialect; that was inconvenient for me rather than difficult, but at
Forte, where we were, any slip of pronunciation would hardly be
observed.
It was the first time that I was to go on the stage behind the
dazzling footlights, the first time that I was to speak in an
unaccustomed dialect, dressed up in ridiculous clothes which were not
my own; and I confess that I was so much frightened that I was tempted
to run back to my dressing-room, to take off my costume, and to have
nothing more to do with the play. But my father, who was aware of my
submissive disposition toward him, with a few words kept me at my
post.
"For shame!" said he; "a man has no right to be afraid." A man! I
was scarce fourteen, yet I aspired to that title.
The conscript who is for the first time under fire feels a sense of
fear. Nevertheless, if he has the pride of his sex, and the dignity
of one who appreciates his duty, he stands firm, though it be against
big will. So it was with me when I began my part. When I perceived
that some of Pasquino's lines were amusing the audience, I took
courage, and, like a little bird making its first flight, I arrived at
the goal, and was eager to try again. As it turned out, my actor's
malady grew worse, so that he was forced to leave the company, and I
was chosen to take his place.
I must have had considerable aptitude for such comic parts as those of
stupid servants, for everywhere that we went I became the public's
Benjamin. I made the people laugh, and they asked for nothing better.
All were surprised that, young and inexperienced as I was, I should
have so much cleverness of manner and such sureness of delivery. My
father was more surprised than anybody, for he had expected far less
of my immaturity and total lack of practice. It is certain that from
that time I began to feel that I was somebody. I had become useful,
or at least I thought I had, and, as a consequence, in my manner and
bearing I began to affect the young man more than was fitting in a
mere boy. I sought to figure in the conversation of grown people, and
many a time I had the pain of seeing my elders smile at my remarks.
It was my great ambition to be allowed to walk alone in the city
streets; my father was very loath to grant this boon, but he let me go
sometimes, perhaps to get a sample of my conduct. I don't remember
ever doing anything at these times which could have displeased him; I
was particularly careful about it, since I saw him sad, pensive, and
afflicted owing to the misfortune which had befallen him, and soon be
began to accord me his confidence, which I was most anxious to gain.