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The Memoirs of Count Carlo Gozzi; Volume the Second

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Title: The Memoirs of Count Carlo Gozzi; Volume the Second

Author: Carlo Gozzi

Illustrator: Adolphe Lalauze
        Alexandre Manceau
        Maurice Sand

Translator: John Addington Symonds


        
Release date: July 22, 2010 [eBook #33225]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33225

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
        produced from scanned images of public domain material
        from the Internet Archive.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT CARLO GOZZI; VOLUME THE SECOND ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Internet Archive.)









[Illustration: book cover]




THE MEMOIRS

OF

COUNT CARLO GOZZI

VOLUME THE SECOND

_PUBLISHERS' NOTE._


_Five hundred and twenty copies of this book printed for England, and
two hundred and sixty for America. Type distributed. Each copy
numbered._

_No._ 204




THE MEMOIRS OF

COUNT CARLO GOZZI

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

BY

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS

With Essays on Italian Impromptu Comedy, Gozzi's Life,
The Dramatic Fables, and Pietro Longhi

BY THE TRANSLATOR

_WITH PORTRAIT AND SIX ORIGINAL ETCHINGS_

BY ADOLPHE LALAUZE

_ALSO ELEVEN SUBJECTS ILLUSTRATING ITALIAN COMEDY BY MAURICE SAND
ENGRAVED ON COPPER BY A. MANCEAU, AND COLOURED BY HAND_

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOLUME THE SECOND

NEW YORK
SCRIBNER & WELFORD
743 & 745 BROADWAY

MDCCCXC




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

_VOLUME THE SECOND._


The Etchings designed and etched by AD. LALAUZE. The Masks, illustrating
the Italian Commedia dell'Arte, by MAURICE SAND, engraved by A. MANCEAU,
and coloured by hand.

                                                          PAGE

I. GOZZI AND HIS FIRST LOVE (_etching_)                     26

II. GOZZI AND HIS FRIENDS' ADVENTURE IN THE CAFE
LUNA (_etching_)                                            60

III. PANTALONE (1550)                                      144

IV. THE RICCI RECITES BEFORE GOZZI AND SACCHI (_etching_)  176

V. SACCHI AND SIGNORA RICCI (_etching_)                    208

VI. RUZZANTE (1525)                                        240

VII. COVIELLO (1550)                                       256

VIII. GRATAROL'S INTERVIEW WITH GOZZI (_etching_)          284

IX. LEANDRE                                                320




CARLO GOZZI.

XXXI.

_Concerning my Physical and Mental Qualities._


In the course of these Memoirs I have promised more than once to give an
exact description of my external appearance and internal qualities, and
also to narrate the story of my love-affairs.

In stature I am tall. Of this I am made conscious by the large amount of
cloth needed for my cloaks, and by the frequent knocks I give my
forehead on entering rooms with low doors. I have the good luck to be
neither crook-backed, lame, blind, nor squint-eyed. I call this good
luck; and yet if I were afflicted with one or other of these
deformities, I should bear it with the same lightness of heart at Venice
as Scarron put up with his deformities in Paris.

This is all I know or have to say about my physical frame. From early
youth I have left to women the trouble of telling me that I was
handsome with a view to flatter me, or that I was ugly with a view to
irritate, in neither of which attempts have they succeeded. Dirt and
squalor I always loathed. Otherwise, if I ever chanced to wear clothes
of a new cut, this was due to my tailor, and not to my orders. Ask
Giuseppe Fornace, my rogue of a snip for over forty years, if I ever
racked my brains about such matters, as so many do. From the year 1735
to 1780, at which date I am writing, I stuck to the same mode of
dressing my hair with heroic constancy. Fashion has changed perhaps a
hundred times during this period, yet I have never deviated from my
adopted style of coiffure. In like manner I have worn the same type of
buckles; except when I happened to break a pair, and was forced to
change them from square to oval; and then I did so at the instance of
the goldsmith, who made me take the lightest in his shop, because they
would break sooner and give him more to do in mending them.

Men who talk little and think much, to which class, peradventure, I
belong, being immersed in their own meditations, catch the habit of
knitting their brows in the travail of reflection. This gives them an
air of savagery, sternness, almost ferocity. Though I am gay by nature,
as appears from my published writings, yet the innumerable thoughts
which kept my brains in a turmoil, through anxieties about our family,
lawsuits, schemes of economy, literary plans, and so forth, bred in me
a trick of contracting my forehead and frowning, which, combined with my
slow gait, taciturnity, and preference for solitary places, won me the
reputation among those who were not my familiar friends of being a
surly, sullen, unapproachable fellow, perhaps even an enemy of mankind.
Many who have come upon me, pondering, with knitted brows and gloomy
downcast eyes, will have suspected that I was planning how to kill an
enemy, while really I was constructing the plot of my _Green Bird_.

In the society of people new to me, I always appeared drowsy, stupid,
silent, and lethargic, until I had studied their characters and ways of
thinking. Afterwards I turned out quite the opposite; not, however, that
I may not have remained a fool; but I was one of those fools who utter
laconisms, less tiresome to the company than interminable flowery
speeches.

I was not miserly, because I always loathed that vice, nor prodigal, for
the sole reason that I was not rich. I cannot form any conception of the
influence which wealth might have exercised over my imagination and my
moral nature, both being doubtless not more free from foibles than in
the case of other men and women.

I might have earned considerably by my numerous published works, but I
made a present of them all to comedians and booksellers, or to persons
who sought to profit by giving them to the press. Perhaps I shall not
be believed when I say that I invariably refused such profit for myself.
Yet this is the fact. Some who are aware that I was far from rich, will
take me to task for my indifference to gain; they will attribute my
generosity to vainglory or to stupidity. I had, however, my own reasons,
which were as follows. My writings were always marked by freedom,
boldness, pungency, and satire upon public manners; at the same time,
moral and playful in expression. Being unpaid, they gained the advantage
of a certain decent independence, which secured for them toleration,
appreciation, and applause on their own merits. Had I been paid for
them, they would have lost their prestige; my antagonists might have
stigmatised them as a parcel of insufferable mercenary calumnies, and I
should have been exposed to universal odium.

In addition to this: there is no degradation for men of letters in Italy
worse than that of writing for hire in the employ of publishers or of
our wretched comedians. The publishers begin by caressing authors, with
a view to getting hold of their works; then they turn round and cast
their pretended losses in the author's teeth. To hear them, you would
imagine that books for which they had begged on their knees before they
sent them to press, were now a load of useless stones encumbering their
shelves. The wretched pence they fling at a writer for some masterpiece
on which he has distilled the best part of his brains, are doled out
with the air of bestowing alms. More fuss is made about it, and it costs
more effort, than if the money were being paid for masses for the dead,
who have no need to clothe and feed themselves. All this is bad enough.
But Apollo protect a poet from being reduced to serve a troop of our
comedians at wages! There is not a galley-slave more abjectly condemned
to servitude than he. There is not a stevedore who carries half the
weight that he does; not an ass who gets more blows and fouler language,
if his drama fails to draw the whole world in a fever of excitement to
the theatre.

For these reasons, I have always shrunk from letting out my pen to hire.
On the frequent occasions when family affairs and litigation have
emptied my purse, I always chose rather to borrow from friends than to
plunge into the mire and rake up a few filthy stinking sequins. In the
one case I incurred the pleasing burden of gratitude to my obligers; in
the second I should have bent beneath the weight of shameful
self-abasement.

Not even the brotherly terms on which I lived with comedians, nor my
free gift to them through five-and-twenty years of all my writings for
the stage, preserved me from the acts of ingratitude, and the annoyances
which are described in the ensuing chapters of my Memoirs. Think then
what would have become of me if I had been their salaried poet!

Italy lacks noblemen, to play the part of Mecaenas, and to protect men of
letters and the theatre. Had there been such, and had they thought me
worthy of their munificence, I should not have blushed to receive it.
Knowing my country, however, and Venice in particular, I never allowed
myself to indulge flattering dreams of any such honourable patronage.

Sustained by my natural keen sense of the ludicrous, I have never even
felt saddened by seeing the morality, which I held for sound and sought
to diffuse through my writings, turned upside down by the insidious
subtleties and sophisms of our century. On the contrary, it amused me
vastly to notice how all the men and all the women of this age believed
in good faith that they had become philosophers. It has afforded me a
constant source of indescribable recreation to study the fantastic
jargons which have sprung up like mushrooms, the obscure and forced ways
of expressing thoughts, spawned by misty self-styled science, invested
with bombastic terms and phrases alien to the genius of our language.
Not less have I diverted myself with the spectacle of all the various
passions to which humanity is subject, suddenly unleashed, playing their
parts with the freedom of emancipated imps, let loose from their
hiding-place by famous discoverers--just like those devils in the tale
of Bonaventura des Periers, whom Solomon sealed up in a caldron and
buried beneath the ground until a pack of wiseacres dug them up and sent
them scampering across the world again.[1]

The spectacle of women turned into men, men turned into women, and both
men and women turned into monkeys; all of them immersed in discoveries
and inventions and the kaleidoscopic whirligigs of fashion; corrupting
and seducing one another with the eagerness of hounds upon the scent;
vying in their lusts and ruinous extravagances; destroying the fortunes
of their families by turns; laughing at Plato and Petrarch; leaving real
sensibility to languish in disuse, and giving its respectable name to
the thinly veiled brutality of the senses; turning indecency into
decency; calling all who differ from them hypocrites, and burning
incense with philosophical solemnity to Priapus:--these things ought
perhaps to have presented themselves to my eyes in the form of a
lamentable tragedy; yet I could never see in them more than a farce,
which delighted while it stupefied me.

I have made but few intimate friendships, being of opinion that a man of
many friends is the real friend of none. Neither time, nor distance,
nor even occasional rudeness, interrupted the rare friendships which I
contracted for life, and which are still as firm as ever.

Now and then, I have given way to angry impulses on sustaining affronts
or injuries; and at such times men of phlegmatic temper are more decided
in their action than the irascible. Reflection, however, always calmed
me down; nor was I ever disposed to endure the wretchedness which comes
from fostering rancour or meditating revenge.

I am inclined to laugh both at _esprits faibles_, who believe in
everything, and at _esprits forts_, who pretend that they believe in
nothing. Yet I hold that the latter are really weaker, and I am sure
that they do more harm, than the former.

Notwithstanding my invincible habit of laughing, I am firmly persuaded
that man is a sublimely noble animal, raised infinitely far above the
brutes. Consequently I could not condescend to regard myself as a bit of
dung or mud, a dog or a pig, in the humble manner of freethinkers. In
spite of all the pernicious systems generated by men of ambitious and
seductive intellect, we are forced to believe ourselves higher in the
scale of beings, and more perfect, than they are willing to admit.
Although we may not be able to define with certainty what we are, we
know at any rate beyond all contradiction what we are not. Let the
freethinking pigs and hens rout in their mud and scratch in their
midden; let us laugh and quiz them, or weep and pity them; but let us
hold fast to the beliefs transmitted to us by an august line of
philosophers, far wiser, far more worthy of attention, than these sages
of the muck and dungheap. The modern caprice of turning all things
topsy-turvy, which makes Epicure an honest man, Seneca an impostor;
which holds up Voltaire, Rousseau, Helvetius, Mirabeau, &c., to our
veneration, while it pours contempt upon the fathers of the Church; this
and all the other impious doctrines scattered broadcast in our century
by sensual fanatics, more fit for the madhouse than the university, have
no fascination for my mind. I contemplate the disastrous influence
exercised by atheism over whole nations. This confirms me still more in
the faith of my forefathers. When I think of those fanatics, the sages
of the muck and midden, when I think of mankind deceived by them, I
repeat in their behoof the sacred words of Christ upon the cross:
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Finally, I
assert that I have always kept alive in me the flame of our august
religion, and that this has been for me my greatest stay and solace
during every affliction. The philosophers of the moment may laugh at me;
I am quite contented for them to regard me as a dullard, besotted by
what they choose to stigmatise as prejudice.




XXXII., XXXIII., XXXIV.

_Condensed by the Translator._


[Gozzi having been accused by his adversary Gratarol of hypocrisy and
covert libertinism, wished to make a full confession of his frailties to
the world, while the witnesses of his life and conversation were still
alive, and his statements could be challenged. With this object he
related three love-passages of his early manhood. To omit these
altogether from his Memoirs would be tantamount to doing him a grave
injustice, since they were meant to illustrate his sentiments upon the
delicate question of the relation between men and women in affairs of
the heart. They are not, however, suited to the taste of the present
century, being dictated with a frankness and a sense of humour which
remind us of our own Fielding. Their tone is wholesome and manly, but
some of their details are crude. It is the translator's duty in these
circumstances to subordinate literary to ethical considerations.
Repeating the stories, so far as possible, in Gozzi's own language, he
must supply those parts which he feels bound to omit by a brief
statement of fact. The portions of this chapter which are enclosed in
brackets contain the translator's abstract. The rest is a more or less
literal version of the original text.]


(i.)

_Story of my first love, with an unexpected termination._

In order to relate the trifling stories of my love-adventures, I must
return to the period of my early manhood. I ought indeed to blush while
telling them, at the age which I have reached; but I promised the tales,
and I shall give them with all candour, even though I have to blush the
while.

Being a man, I felt the sympathy for women which all men feel. As soon
as I could comprehend the difference between the sexes--and one arrives
betimes at such discretion--women appeared to me a kind of earthly
goddesses. I far preferred the society of a woman to that of a man. It
happened, however, that education and religious principles were so
deeply rooted in my nature, and acted on me so powerfully as checks to
inclination, that they made me in those salad days extremely modest and
reserved. I hardly know whether this modesty and this reserve of mine
were quite agreeable to all the girls of my acquaintance during the
years of my first manhood.

I can take my oath that I left my father's house, at the age of sixteen,
on military service in Dalmatia, innocent--I will not say in
thoughts--but most innocent as to the acts of love. The town of Zara was
the rock on which this frail bark of my innocency foundered; and since I
hope to make my readers laugh at my peculiar bent in love-making, and
also by the tales of my amours, I will first describe my character in
this respect, and then proceed to the narratives.

I always preserved a tincture of romantic metaphysics with regard to
love. The brutality of the senses had less to do with my peccadilloes
than a delicate inclination and tenderness of heart. I cherished so
lofty and respectful a conception of feminine honour and virtue that any
women who abandoned themselves to facile pleasures were abhorrent to my
taste. A _fille de joie_, as the voluptuaries say, appeared to me more
frightful, more disgusting, than the Orc described by Boiardo.[2] Never
have I employed the iniquitous art of seduction by suggestive language,
nor have I ever allowed myself the slightest freedom which might
stimulate desire. Languishing in soft and thrilling sentiments, I
demanded from a woman sympathy and inclination of like nature with my
own. If she fell, I thought that this should only happen through one of
those blind and sudden transports which suppress our reason on both
sides, the mutual violence of which admits of no control. Nothing could
have been more charming to my fancy than the contemplation of a woman,
blushing, terrified, with eyes cast down to earth, after yielding to the
blind force of affection in self-abandonment to impulse. I should have
remembered how she made for me the greatest of all sacrifices--that of
honour and of virtue, on which I set so high a value. I should have
worshipped her like a deity. I could have spent my life's blood in
consoling her; and without swearing eternal constancy, I should have
been most stable on my side in loving such a mistress. On the other
hand, I could have safely defied all men alive upon the earth to take a
more sudden, more resolute, and more irreversible step of separation
than myself, however much it cost me, if only I discovered in that woman
a character different from what I had imagined and conceived of her,
while all the same I should have maintained her honour and good repute
at the cost of my own life.

This delicate or eccentric way of mine in thinking about love exposed me
to facile deceptions in my youthful years, when the blood boils, and
self-love has some right to illusion, and the great acquirement of
experience is yet to be made.

The narratives of my first loves will confer but little honour on the
fair sex; but before I enter on them I must protest that I have always
made allowance for the misfortune under which, perhaps, I suffered, of
having had bad luck in love; which does not shake my conviction that
many phoenixes may be alive with whom I was unworthy to consort.

After living through the mortal illness which I suffered during the
first days of my residence at Zara--an illness undergone and overcome in
that squalid room described by me in the first part of these Memoirs--I
moved into one of the so-called Quarterioni situated on the beautiful
walls of Zara, and built for the use of officers. A very good room,
which I furnished suitably to my moderate means, together with a
kitchen, formed the whole of my apartment. I engaged a soldier for my
service at a small remuneration. He had orders to retire in the evening
to his quarters, leaving me a light burning. I remained alone; went to
bed, with a book and a candle at my side; read, yawned, and fell asleep.

Now to attack the tale of my first love-adventure! Its details will
perhaps prove tiresome, but they may yet be profitable to the
inexperience of youngsters.

Opposite my windows, at a certain distance, rose the dwelling of three
sisters, noble by birth, but sunk in poverty which had nothing to do
with noble blood. An officer, their brother, sent them trifling monies
from his foreign station, and they earned a little for their livelihood
by various woman's work, with which I saw them occupied. The elder of
these three Graces would not have been ugly, if her bloodshot eyes,
rimmed round with scarlet, had not obscured the lustre of her
countenance. The second was one of those bewitching rogues who are bound
to please. Not tall, but well-made, and a brunette; her hair black and
long; eyes very black and sparkling. Under her demure aspect there
transpired a force of physique and a vivacity which were certainly
seductive. The third was still a girl, lively, spirited, with
possibilities of good or evil in her make.

I never saw these three nymphs except by accident, when I opened the
window at which I used to wash my hands, and when their windows were
also open, which happened seldom. They saluted me with a becoming bow. I
answered with equal decorum and sobriety. Meanwhile, I did not fail, as
time went on, to notice that whenever I opened my window to wash my
hands, that little devil, the second sister, lost no time in opening her
window too, and washed her hands precisely while I was washing mine;
also, when she bent her lovely head to greet me, she kept those fine
black eyes of hers fixed on my face in a sort of dream, and with a kind
of languor well fitted to captivate a lad. I felt, indeed, a certain
tickling at my heart-strings; but the austere thoughts to which I was
accustomed, cured me of that weakness; and without failing in civility,
I kept myself within the bounds of grave indifference.

A Genoese woman, to whom I paid a trifle for ironing my scanty linen,
came one morning with some of my shirts in a basket. Upon the washing
lay a very fine carnation. "Whose is that flower?" I asked. "It is sent
to you," she answered, "and from the hands of a lovely girl, your
neighbour, for whom you have the cruelty to take no heed." The carnation
and the diplomatic message--and well knew I from whence both
came--increased the itching at my heart-strings. Nevertheless, I
answered the ambassadress in terms like these: "Thank that lovely damsel
on my part; but do not fail to tell her that she is wasting her flowers
to little purpose."

My head began to spin round and my heart to soften. At the same time,
when I reflected that I had no wish to enter into matrimonial
engagements, which were wholly excluded from my plan of life, nor yet to
prejudice the reputation of a girl by traffic with her--furthermore,
when I considered how little money I possessed, to be bestowed on one in
whom I recognised so much of beauty--I stamped out all the sparks of
sympathy which drew me toward her. I began by never washing my hands at
the window, in order to escape the arrows of those thievish eyes. This
act of retirement was ineffectual; indeed, it led to worse consequences.

One day I was called to attend upon my old friend, the officer Giovanni
Apergi, who had been my master in military exercises, and who was now
in bed, racked and afflicted with aches acquired in youthful
dissipation. He had his lodging on the walls, not far away from mine, in
the house of a woman well advanced in years, the wife of a notary.
Thither then I went.

The elderly housekeeper began to twit me with my rustic manners.
Gradually she passed to sharp but motherly reproof; in a youngster of
from sixteen to seventeen, like myself, the sobriety of a man of fifty
had all the effect of caricature; in particular, my treatment of
well-bred handsome girls, devotedly in love with me, my driving them to
desperation and tears by indifference and what appeared like scorn, did
not deserve the name of prudence; it was nothing short of clownishness
and tyranny. My friend, the officer, pulling wry faces and shrieking at
the twinges of his gout, chimed in with similar reproaches: I was a
little simpleton, a fool who did not know his own good fortune. "Oh, if
I only had your youth, your health, your opportunities!" Groans
interrupted these broken exclamations.

Just when I was preparing to defend myself, some one knocked, and the
dangerous beauty came into the room, under the pretext of inquiring
after the health of the officer. Her entrance checked my speech and made
my heart beat faster. The conversation turned on general and decorous
topics. The girl discovered qualities of wit and understanding; she was
not very talkative, but sensible and modest. Her eyes, which might in
poetry have been called stars, told me clearly that I was an ingrate.
Her visit to the sick man was really intended for the sound. At its
close, she remarked that she had sent her servant back, because her
elder sister was confined to bed by fever; might she beg for some one to
conduct her home? "This gentleman," replied the elderly woman, pointing
at once to me, "will be able to oblige you." "Oh, I do not wish to put
him to trouble; I am not worthy of the honour." The cunning creature
said this with ironical seriousness. I made the usual polite offer of my
services, and rose to accompany her. We had not far to go, and during
the brief journey both were silent. As she leant upon my arm, which was
steadier than marble, I felt her tremble sensibly, and we were in the
month of July. This tremor ran through my vitals, and made me tremble
more than she did.

When we reached her dwelling, she begged me to step in and to give her
the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation. We went upstairs, and I
beheld a home breathing of indigence in all its details. In the room
which I was asked to enter, her elder sister (the one with the red eyes)
lay sound asleep upon a decent bed, notably different from the rest of
the furniture. She was really ill, and we did not wish to wake her; so
our conversation proceeded in a low voice. My beauty began to knit a
stocking, and made me sit upon a little wretched sofa at her side. She
whispered, with downcast eyes, that some weeks ago she had conceived
the greatest esteem for me, but that she feared she had not earned
gratitude for her lively sentiments of regard. I answered in a whisper,
but with raised eyes, that I believed in her sincerity; I did not
suppose that she was flattering me; yet I was inquisitive to learn how
she had come to entertain such partiality for a young man unknown to
her, who was not worthy to excite the sentiments she had described. She
replied, still whispering, but lifting her eyes a little, that she had
told the simple truth. Her heart had first been touched when she saw me
play the part of Luce, the _soubrette_, in the theatre. Afterwards,
while watching me on the pallone-ground, this impression had been
deepened. I listened with some repulsion to the motives of her passion,
nor could I refrain from answering, with a laugh: "Surely modest girls
are taken by the mental gifts and sterling qualities of a young man, not
by such follies as you deign to mention." She dropped her fine eyes,
mortified by this home-thrust. Then she replied with a finesse I hardly
expected from a Dalmatian: "You cannot deny that public exploits,
universally applauded, in a young man, have some right to impress a
girl's imagination. I could indeed have defended my heart against these
promptings, if your person had not pleased me; if you had not shown
yourself in private to be governed by principles of modesty, sobriety,
and prudence; if the whole city were not edified by your behaviour, and
ringing with perpetual eulogies of conduct rare indeed among those
madcap fellows of the garrison. These reports confirmed my passion; and
if now I find it scorned by you, I know not to what extremities despair
will drive me." This speech flattered my _amour propre_. Tears, which
she attempted to conceal, fell from her fine eyes, and stirred my
sensibility. The beauty of the little devil had bewitched me. However, I
summoned reason to my aid, and replied with gentle calmness: "Dear lady,
I should be a monster if I were not grateful to you for your kind and
precious sentiments. Still I am only a lad, dependent on my family,
without the resources of fortune. Unable as I am to think of marriage, I
should injure you and should commit a dishonourable action were I to
frequent your society. The tenderness, which I feel only too deeply for
you, might lead me also on my own side into some disaster. Precisely
because I love you, it is my duty to shrink from anything which could be
hurtful to you; and because you love me, it is your duty to shun what
might prove disastrous to myself. Do not be hurt by what I have to say.
I shall not cease to cherish in my breast an ardent affection for
yourself; but from this hour forward I must avoid all opportunities of
being in your company, not less for my own than for your advantage."

The stocking she was knitting fell to the floor. She took one of my
hands and clasped it to her bosom. Leaning her lovely cheek against my
shoulder and shedding tears, she whispered, changing _you_ to _thou_ in
the Dalmatian fashion: "Dear friend, how little dost thou know me! Thy
prudent and ingenuous speech has only added to the ardour of my soul.
Couldst thou suspect that my poverty was laying a trap for thy thrift?
Couldst thou imagine that I was a dissolute girl, or that I was angling
for a husband? Thou art mistaken. I make allowances for thy mistake.
But, for pity's sake, learn to know me better. Grant me from time to
time some moments of thy charming conversation. We will watch for these
precious moments with discretion. Unless thou art a tiger of cruelty, do
not abandon me to the unbearable torments of a burning heart." Her tears
began to fall in showers. For my part, I remained deeply moved,
confused, and, I confess, madly in love with this charming girl, who had
so cleverly expressed a passion quite in harmony with my own idealistic
tendencies. I promised to renew our meetings; and indeed this promise
was made at least as much to my own heart as to hers. She showed the
liveliest signs of satisfaction; but at this moment her sister woke. I
explained the accident which brought me to their house; and then my
innamorata led me to the staircase. There we shook and kissed hands. I
departed, head over ears in love, a captivated blockhead.

We continued to find occasions for our meetings, and with less of
caution than we had agreed upon. During several days our conversations
were playful, witty, piquant. It was an exchange of sentiments, of
sighs, of little caressing epithets, of languors, pallors, trembling
glances--of all those sweets, in short, which constitute the greatest
charm, the most delicate, the most enduring delights of love. On my
side, the restraint of modesty was not yet broken. On the girl's side,
it did not seem to be so. One day, after playing pallone, I changed my
shirt, and went to walk alone upon the ramparts. It was very hot, and I
looked forward to the refreshment of the sea-breeze. Passing the house
of the notary's wife, with whom my friend, the gouty officer, lodged, I
heard my name called. Looking up, I saw the woman with my idol at the
window. They asked me in, and I entered gladly. A walk upon the ramparts
was proposed; and the officer, who happened to be better, wished to join
our party. He gave his arm to the elderly dame; I offered mine to the
blooming girl. He walked slowly, limping on his gouty toes. I walked
slowly for a different reason; my heart, and not my toe, was smitten;
besides, my sweetheart and I were more at liberty together, if we kept
the other couple well in front. Meanwhile night began to fall. After
taking a short turn, the officer complained of pain in his feet, and
begged leave to go back with his elderly companion, adding that I could
see my lady home when we had enjoyed enough of the evening cool
together. The pair departed, while I remained with my innamorata, lost
in the ecstasies of love.

[At this point Gozzi proceeds to relate how the liaison between these
two young people became most intimate. It had begun, as we have seen,
with advances on the part of the girl, and now it was carried forward
chiefly by her address and pertinacity.]

The intrigue continued for two months, with equal ardour on both sides.
Blinded as we were by passion, we thought that it was hidden from all
eyes; and yet perchance we were but playing the comedy of _Il Pubblico
Secreto_.[3] At any rate, I must admit that I found in this girl a
mistress exactly suited to my metaphysical ineptitude. She showed
herself always tender, always in ecstasy, always afraid to lose me,
always candid. Knowing how poor she was, I often wanted to divide my
poverty with her. I used prayers, almost violence, to win her consent to
this partition of my substance. But she took it as an unbearable insult,
and broke into rage in her refusals, exclaiming with kisses which drew
my soul forth to her crimson lips: "Thy heart is my true riches."

Certainly, a young man in his first love-passage sees awry, and makes
mistakes through mere stupidity. The end of this amour, which seemed
interminable, was brought about by an incident sufficiently absurd, and
far removed from my delicate idealism. It happened that the Provveditore
Generale was summoned to Bocche di Cataro, in order to settle some
disputes between the tribe called Pastrovicchi and the Turks. I had to
take sail with the Court. Good God! what agonies there were, what
rendings of the heart, what tears, what vows of fidelity, at this cruel
parting between two young creatures drowned in love! My absence lasted
about forty days, which seemed to me as many years. Scarcely had I
returned, and was rushing to my goddess, when a certain Count Vilio of
Desenzano, master of the horse to the General, who had stayed behind at
Zara (a man sufficiently dissolute in his amours, but a good and sincere
friend), came up to me and spoke as follows: "Gozzi, I know that you are
on the best of terms with such and such a girl. I should be acting
wrongly if I did not inform you of what has happened in your absence,
the truth of which I hold on sure foundations. You have a rival, one
with whom it would ill become you to compete. I am certain that he has
employed his time to good purpose. You have received my warning; rule
yourself accordingly." These words were scorpions to my heart.
Nevertheless, I chose to assume indifference, and put a bold face on the
matter. So I forced myself to laugh, and answered, stammering perhaps a
trifle, that it was quite true I knew the girl, but that my intercourse
with her had always been blameless, and that I had no cause to fear. I
had invariably found her so modest and reserved that I suspected he must
have been taken in by a bragging impostor, to the infinite injury of the
poor girl's character. "I am not mistaken, by gad," cried Vilio in his
Brescian way. "You are of years to know the world. I have done my duty
as a friend, and that is enough for me."

He left me with my head stunned, my spirit in confusion, staggering upon
my feet. From my earliest boyhood, I have always made a point of
exercising self-control. Accordingly, I now stifled the imperious
impulse which urged me to embrace my mistress. I did not merely postpone
my visit, but I kept my windows shut, avoiding every opportunity of
setting eyes on her. The Genoese laundress brought me diplomatic
messages; to these I returned laconic and meaningless answers, without
betraying the reason of my sudden coldness. Some notes were refused with
heroic, or shall I call it asinine endurance. At the same time, I
nourished in my breast a lively desire that my mistress might be
innocent, and that the accusation of so base a fault might be proved a
vile mendacious calumny. I hoped to arrive at the truth somehow, by
adhering to severe and barbarous measures.

In course of time I obtained only too positive confirmation of my fears.
Walking one day upon the ramparts, the elderly dame, of whom I have
already spoken, called me from her window, and begged me to come up. She
had a word or two to say to me. I assented, and entered the house.
Divining that she wished to speak about my mistress, I armed myself with
caution. My plan was to allege decent excuses for my conduct, without
touching the repulsive wound. However, I had not divined the whole. She
led me into a room, where, to my surprise, I beheld the idol of my first
affections, seated and shedding tears. "What I wanted to say to you,"
exclaimed the dame, "you will hear from the lips of this afflicted
damsel." On this, she left the room, while I remained like a statue
before the beauty I had adored, and who was still supremely charming in
my sight. She lifted her forehead, and began to load me with the
bitterest reproaches. I did not allow her to run on, but told her with
resolute plainness that a young woman who, during my absence, had played
so false was no longer worthy of my love. She turned pale, crying aloud:
"What scoundrelly scandal-monger has dared...." Again I cut her speech
short, adding: "Do not tire yourself by attempting the justification of
your conduct. I know the whole truth from an infallible source. I am
neither inconstant, nor a dreamer, nor ungrateful, nor unjust." The
assurance with which I uttered these words made the poor girl lower her
face, as though she was ashamed that I should look at her. Then bursting
into a passion of tears, broken with sobs, she brought these incoherent
phrases forth: "You are right ... I am no longer worthy of you.... Oh,
cursed poverty, thrice-cursed poverty!" She was unable to continue, and
I thought her tears would suffocate her. I was fit to drop to earth with
the vertigo caused by this confession, which left no flattering hopes of
innocence. My senses still painted a Venus in that desolated beauty. My
romantic head and heart painted her a horrid Fury from the pit of hell.
I kept silence. In my purse were some ducats, few indeed, but yet I had
them. I took these coins out, and, speechless still, I let them gently
drop into the loveliest bosom I have ever seen. Then I turned my back
and fled. Half mad with grief, I bounded down the staircase like a
greyhound, screaming with the ecstasy of one possessed by devils:
"Cursed poverty! Cursed, thrice-cursed poverty!"

[Illustration: GOZZI AND HIS FIRST LOVE

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

Since then I never saw the object of my first love. I thought I must
have died under the pressure of a passion which gnawed my entrails, but
which, although I was but a boy, I had the cruel strength to subjugate.
Soon afterwards I learned with satisfaction that the unhappy girl had
married an officer, but I never sought to trace her out or to hear more
about her history.


(ii.)

_The story of my second love-affair, with fewer platonisms and a more
comic ending than the last._

About that time the Provveditore Generale found that he had need of my
quarters for storing the appurtenances of his stables and of the
coach-house, which were situated beneath the Quarterioni. Accordingly, I
removed into a little pavilion, which my friend Signor Innocenzio
Massimo and I had taken. It stood upon the ramparts. We could not occupy
this dwelling long; for it was distant from the Court and from our place
of duty. Moreover, when the winter season arrived, heavy rains, a
terrible north-wind, and snowfalls made our nest uninhabitable. Massimo
had some acquaintance with a shopkeeper and tradesman, who lived inside
the town, and owned a house with rooms to spare and many conveniences.
This man was married to a fine woman, plump and blooming; and God
forgive me if I think it probable that Massimo was more intimate with
the wife than the husband! Anyhow, he made arrangements with this
excellent couple to rent two rooms, one for me, the other for himself,
in close communication. We agreed for these rooms by the month, taking
our meals with the masters; their table was homely but abundant, and the
food excellent.

The couple were not blessed with children, but the man had adopted a
poor girl, in order to perform an act of Christian charity. This child,
who had scarcely reached her fourteenth year, dined and supped with us,
as the adopted daughter of the house. Her behaviour betrayed nothing but
the innocence belonging to her age. She had blonde hair, large blue
eyes, an expression at once soft and languid, a pale complexion tinged
with rose. She was rather thin than fleshy; but her figure was straight,
lithe, and beautifully formed; in stature she promised to be tall, with
something of majestic in her build. This girl came to dress me and
arrange my hair for the part of Luce, whenever I played at the Court
theatre. She joked and laughed, and turned me round to look at me. I
made some harmless witticisms in reply. At this she laughed the louder.
Such was our custom; but one evening, after she had done my hair for
Luce, she suddenly gave me three or four kisses on my cheeks and lips. I
was astonished. Yet I thought the girl so guileless, that I supposed she
must have imagined she was kissing some one of her own sex, seeing me
dressed like a female. This scene was repeated every evening with
additions; and I began to perceive that her kisses were not as innocent
as I supposed. Respect for my host's roof induced me to reprove her
kindly but seriously, and so as not to rouse resentment in the girl. I
warned her that such kisses between man and woman were forbidden by our
confessors.

[Gozzi now describes the peculiar relations which subsisted between the
several members of his host's family, and the progress of his flirtation
with the little serving-maid. He admits that she bewitched him by her
fantastic and wayward coquetries--as of an elf, a sprite, an enchanted
butterfly--which contrasted curiously with her demure and serious
demeanour in public. "Her behaviour at table and about the house would
have done credit to Santa Rosa." In private, she was a creature of whim,
caprice, extravagant and reckless folly. He was on the point of losing
his heart, or at least of trespassing beyond the bounds of prudence,
when the following occurrences took place, which may be repeated in his
own words.]

About a month remained before our Provveditore Generale Querini took
sail for Venice. His successor was already at Zara; and I had arranged
my own departure, to suit with that of my superior. I must admit,
however, that I was so captivated by that little hussy's ways, that all
my strength of mind could not prevent me from looking forward with real
sadness to our parting.

A comic accident, which happened three days before I quitted Zara, cured
me on the instant, and made me bless the hour of my embarkation for
home. In order to make my narrative intelligible, I shall be obliged to
describe the plan and the construction of the house we occupied. After
ascending the first stone staircase, one entered a large hall. At the
end of this hall, on the right hand, were two chambers, in one of which
the married couple slept, while Massimo occupied the other. On the left
of the staircase lay my bedroom, near the door of which another opening
led to the foot of a long ladder of thirty or more wooden steps. By this
one mounted to a floor above. Just at the top of the ladder was a dormer
window, looking out upon the roof, for the convenience of work-people,
when tiles had to be replaced and other repairs made. At one side of
this window you found a little chamber, the chaste cell in which my
mistress slept.

The putative father of the girl, that charitable man, had conceived no
suspicions with regard to me; her behaviour and mine in public was
marked with indifference, so well sustained that it suggested nothing to
arouse a doubt about us. He was furiously jealous, however, and had some
inklings that a certain young man, who inhabited the next house, might
crawl along the roof at night like a cat, and get in by the window, if
his adopted daughter left it open. His working jealousy suggested the
following device. How it was executed, I do not know. But he secretly
attached a thick log to the dormer window by a slender cord, in such a
way that it was impossible to open the window without snapping the
twine, and letting the log fall headlong down the ladder with a fearful
crash. This trap was meant to act as an alarm to the paternal guardian.
One night while I was sweetly sleeping, an infernal uproar, as of
something tumbling down the wooden stairs which ran along the boarding
at my pillow's head, woke me up with an awful fright. I thought my
sweetheart must have fallen, but it was only the log which went heavily
lumbering down.

I jumped out of bed in my shirt, caught up a light, and sallied forth to
give assistance to the wretched girl. While I was opening my door, I
spied the putative father in his shirt with a light in one hand and a
long naked scimitar clenched in the other, running like mad and rushing
up the stairs to execute summary vengeance. His wife in her shirt
hurried after, shrieking to make him stop. Massimo in his shirt, with a
light, and with his brandished sword, issued at the same time from his
bedroom, judging by the din that thieves were in the house. The husband
ran upstairs, swearing. The wife followed, howling. I followed the wife,
in dumb bewilderment. Massimo followed me, shouting: "Who is it? What is
it? Make room for me! Leave me to do the business!" The scene was quite
dramatic. The dormer window stood wide open. The girl in her smock had
fallen, huddled together, terrified, and trembling, just beneath it. Her
crime was manifest. We had much ado, all three of us, to curb the rage
of the so-called putative father, who had now become an Orlando Furioso,
and was bent on cutting the throat of his adopted daughter. The row was
terrible. During the long examinations which ensued, and in which,
thanks to Heaven, no mention was made of me, it came out that this
modest little damsel was very far from being the Santa Rosa that she
seemed.

All these matters were finally made up with sermons, threats, entreaties
for forgiveness, promises, vows to never do the like again, and a change
of dormitory for the vestal. I left Zara, light of heart, three days
after this event, horrified at the memory of my second love-affair.


(iii.)

_Story of my third love-affair, which, though it is true history, women
may, if they please, regard as fiction._

After my return to Venice occurred the events which I shall now proceed
to narrate. This third amour was also the last of any essential
importance in my life. During its development the romance and idealism
of my nature, the delicacy of my emotions, seemed to meet with perfect
correspondence in a mistress whose sublime sentiments matched my own.
Why I say _seemed_, will appear in the sequel of this story, out of
which Boccaccio might have formed a first-rate novel. The recital must
be lengthy; but I crave indulgence from my readers, feeling that the
numerous episodes which it contains and the abundance of curious
material deserve a careful handling.

I occupied some little rooms at the top of our house in Venice. Here I
used to sleep, and pass whole days in study. From time to time, while I
was working, an angel's voice arrested my attention, singing melancholy
airs attuned to sad and plaintive melodies. This lovely voice came from
a house which was only divided by a very narrow alley from my apartment.
My windows opened on the house in question; and so it happened, as a
matter of course, that one fine day I caught sight of its possessor
sitting at her window sewing. Leaning at one of my windows, I found
myself so close to the lady that civility obliged me to salute her. She
returned my bow with courteous gravity. It was a young woman of about
seventeen, married, and endowed with all the charms which nature can
confer. Her demeanour was stately; complexion, very white; stature,
middle-sized; the look of her eyes gentle and modest. She was neither
plump nor lean. Her bust presented an agreeable firmness; her arms were
rounded, and she had the most beautiful hands. A scarlet riband bound
her forehead, and was tied in a bow behind her thick and flowing
tresses. On her countenance dwelt a fixed expression of profound
sadness, which compelled attention. In spite of these distinguished
qualities, I was far from engaging my romantic heart upon the spot. My
adventures at Zara were too fresh in my memory, and had taught me some
experience.

When one has a beautiful young woman for one's next-door neighbour, it
is easy to pass by degrees from daily compliments and salutations to a
certain sort of intimacy. One begins to ask: "How are you?" or "Did you
sleep well last night?" One exchanges complaints upon the subject of the
weather, the scirocco, the rain. At length, after some days passed in
such inquiries on topics common to all stupid people, one is anxious to
show that one is not as stupid as the rest of the world.

I asked her one morning why she invariably exercised her charming voice
in mournful songs and plaintive music. She replied that her temperament
inclined to melancholy; that she sang to distract her thoughts, and that
she only found relief in sadness. "But you are young," I said. "I see
that you are well provided; I recognise that you have wit and
understanding; you ought to overcome your temperament by wise
reflections; and yet, I cannot deny it, there is always something in
your eyes and in your face which betrays a chagrin unsuited to your
years. I cannot comprehend it." She answered with much grace, and with a
captivating half-smile, that "since she was not a man, she could not
know what impression the affairs of this world make upon the minds of
men, and since I was not a woman, I could not know what impression they
make upon the minds of women." This reply, which had a flavour of
philosophy, sent a little arrow to my heart. The modest demeanour, the
seriousness, and the cultivation of this Venetian lady pictured her to
me immeasurably different from the Dalmatian women I had known. I began
to flatter myself that here perhaps I had discovered the virtuous
mistress for whom my romantic, metaphysical, delicate heart was sighing.
A crowd of reflections came to break the dream, and I contented myself
with complimenting her upon her answer. Afterwards, I rather avoided
occasions for seeing and talking with her.

Certainly she must have had plenty of work to finish; for I observed her
every day seated at the same window sewing with melancholy seriousness.
While shunning, so far as this was possible, the danger of conversing
with her, my poor heart felt it would be less than civil not to speak a
word from time to time. Accordingly we now and then engaged in short
dialogues. They turned upon philosophical and moral topics--absurdities
in life, human nature, fashion. I tried to take a lively tone, and
entered upon some innocent witticisms, in order to dispel her gloom. But
I rarely succeeded in waking a smile on her fair lips. Her replies were
always sensible, decorous, ingenious, and acute. While debating some
knotty point which admitted controversy, she forgot to work, left her
needle sticking in the stuff, looked me earnestly in the face and
listened to my remarks as though she were reading a book which compelled
her to concentrate her mind. Flattering suggestions filled my head. I
sought to extinguish them, and grew still more abstemious in the
indulgence of our colloquies.

More than a month had passed in this way, when I noticed, on opening a
conversation of the usual kind, that the young woman gazed hard at me
and blushed a little, without my being able to assign any cause for her
blushes. A few indifferent sentences were exchanged. Still I perceived
her to be restless and impatient, as though she were annoyed by my
keeping to generalities and not saying something she was waiting for. I
did not, and really could not, make it out. I might have imagined she
was expecting a declaration. But she did not look like a woman of that
sort, and I was neither bold nor eager enough to risk it. At length I
thought it best to remark that I saw she had things to think over, and
that I would not infringe upon her leisure further. I bowed, and was
about to take my leave. "Please, do not go!" she exclaimed in some
distress, and rising at the same time from her chair: "Did you not
receive, two days ago, a note from me in answer to one of yours,
together with a miniature?" "What note? What answer? What miniature?"
cried I in astonishment: "I know nothing about the matter." "Are you
telling the truth?" she asked, turning pale as she spoke. I assured her
on my honour that I did not know what she referred to. "Good God!" she
said with a sigh, and sinking back half-fainting on her chair: "Unhappy
me! I am betrayed." "But what is it all about?" continued I, in a low
voice, from my window, truly grieved to be unable to assist her.
Ultimately, after a pause of profound discouragement, she rose and said
that in her position she had extreme need of advice. She had obtained
her husband's permission to go that day after dinner to visit an aunt of
hers, a nun, on the Giudecca. Therefore she begged me to repair at
twenty-one o'clock to the _sotto portico_ by the _ponte storto_ at S.
Apollinare.[4] There I should see, waiting or arriving, a gondola with a
white handkerchief hung out of one of its windows. I was to get boldly
into this gondola, and I should find her inside. "Then you will hear all
about the circumstances in which my want of caution has involved me."
This she spoke with continued agitation. "I have no one but you to go
to for advice. If I deserve compassion, do not fail me. I believe enough
in your discretion to confide in you." With these words she bowed and
rapidly retired.

I remained fixed to the spot, like a man of plaster; my brains working,
without detecting the least clue to the conundrum; firmly resolved,
however, to seek out the _sotto portico_, the _ponte storto_, and the
gondola. I took my dinner in haste, nearly choked myself, and alleging
business of the last importance, flew off to the _ponte storto_. The
gondola was in position at a _riva_, with the flag of the white
handkerchief hung out. I entered it in haste, impelled perhaps by the
desire to join the lovely woman, perhaps by curiosity to hear the
explanation of the letters and the miniature. When I entered, there she
was, resplendent with gems of price at her ears, her throat, her
fingers, underneath the _zendado_.[5] She made room for me beside her,
and gave orders to the gondolier that he should draw the curtain, and
row toward the Giudecca to a monastery which she named.

She opened our conversation by apologising for having given me so much
trouble, and by begging me not to form a sinister conception of her
character. The invitation, it was true, exposed her to the risk of being
taken for a light woman, considering her obligations as a wife. To this
she added that she had already formed a flattering opinion of my
discretion, prudence, honourable conduct, and upright ways of thinking.
She proceeded to tell me that she found herself much embarrassed by
circumstances. She asked me if I knew a woman and a man, a poor married
couple, whom her husband lodged under his roof, renting them a room and
kitchen on the ground-floor. I replied with the frankness of veracity
that I was perfectly ignorant regarding the persons whom she indicated;
far from being aware that they dwelt in her house, I did not know of
their existence in the universe. At this answer, she closed her eyes and
lips, as though in pain; then she resumed: "And yet the man assured me
that he knew you perfectly, and possessed your thorough confidence;
furthermore, he brought me this note from you, in the greatest secrecy;
you can read it, and discover whether I am speaking true." Upon this she
drew the billet from her bosom, and handed it to me.

I opened it with amazement, and saw at once that I had never written it.
I read it through, and found in it the divagations of a most consummate
lady-killer, full of panegyrics on the fair one's charms, oceans of
nauseous adulation, stuffed out with verses filched from Metastasio. I
was on the point of giving way to laughter. The concluding moral of the
letter was that I (who was not I), being desperately in love with her,
and forecasting the impossibility of keeping company with her, saw my
only hope in the possession of her portrait; if I could obtain but this,
and keep it close to a heart wounded by Cupid's dart, this would have
been an immense relief to my intense passion.

"Is it conceivable, madam," said I, after reading this precious
effusion, "that you have conceived a gracious inclination toward me,
grounded on my discretion, on my prudence, on my good principles, on my
ways of thinking, and that after all this you have accepted such
ridiculous and stupid stuff as a composition addressed by me to you?"
"So it is," she answered: "we women cannot wholly divest us of a certain
vanity, which makes us foolish and blind. Added to the letter, the man
who brought it uttered words, as though they came from you, which
betrayed me into an imprudence that will cost me many tears, I fear. I
answered the letter with some civil sentiments, cordially expressed; and
as I happened to have by me a miniature, set in jewels, and ordered by
my husband, I consigned this to the man in question, together with my
note, feeling sure that if I were obliged to show the picture to my
husband, you would have returned it to me. It seems then that you have
received neither the portrait nor my letter in reply?" "Is it possible,"
I answered, "that you are still in doubt about my having done this
thing? Do you still believe me capable of such an action?" "No, no!" she
said: "I see only too well that you have nothing to do with the affair.
Poor wretched me! to what am I exposed then? A letter written by my hand
... that portrait ... in the keeping of that man ... my husband!... For
heaven's sake, give me some good counsel!" She abandoned herself to
tears.

I could do nothing but express my astonishment at the cleverness of the
thief. I tried to tranquillise her; then I said that, if I had to give
advice, it was necessary that I should be informed about the man and
wife who occupied her house, and about the intimacy she maintained with
them. She replied that the husband seemed to be a good sort of fellow,
who gained something by a transport-boat he kept. "The wife is a most
excellent poor creature, and a devoted daughter of the Church. She is
attached to me, and I to her. I often keep her in my company, have often
helped her in her need, and she has shown herself amply grateful. You
know that, between women, we exchange confidences which we do not
communicate to men. She is aware of certain troubles which beset me, and
which I need not speak to you about; and she feels sorry for me. She has
heard me talking at the window with you, and has joked me on the
subject. I made no secret to her of my inclination, adding however that
I knew my duties as a wife, and that I had overcome the weakness. She
laughed at me, and encouraged me to be a little less regardful on this
point. That is really all I have to tell you, and I think I shall have
said perhaps too much." So she spoke, and dropped her eyes. "You have
not said enough," I put in: "That excellent Christian woman, your
confidante--tell me, did she ever see your portrait set in jewels?" "Oh,
yes! I often showed it to her." "Well, the excellent and so forth woman
has told everything to her excellent husband. They have laid their heads
together, and devised the roguery of the forged letter to abstract your
jewelled miniature. The worst is that the excellent pair had some
secretary to help them in their infernal conciliabulum." "Is it
possible?" exclaimed she, like one bewitched. "You may be more than sure
that it is so; and shortly you will obtain proof of this infallible
certainty." "But what can I do?" "Give me some hints about your
husband's character, and how he treats you." "My husband adores me. I
live upon the most loyal terms with him. He is austere, and does not
wish to be visited at home. But whenever I ask leave to go and pay my
compliments to relatives or female friends, he grants me permission
without asking further questions." "I do not deny that your want of
caution has placed you in a position of delicacy and danger.
Nevertheless, I will give you the advice, which I think the only one
under these uncomfortable circumstances. That excellent Christian woman,
your confidante, does she know perhaps that I was going to meet you in
the gondola to-day?" "No, sir! certainly not, because she was not at
home." "I am glad to hear it. This, then, is my advice. Forget
everything about the miniature, just as though you had never possessed
it; bear the loss with patience, because there is no help for it. If you
attempted to reclaim it, the villain of a thief and his devout wife and
the secretary, finding their roguery exposed, might bring you into the
most serious trouble. If your husband has a whim to see the miniature,
you can always pretend to look for it and not to find it, affect
despair, and insinuate a theft. Do not let yourself be seen henceforward
at the window talking with me. Go even to the length of informing your
confidante that you intend to subjugate an unbecoming inclination. Treat
the pair of scoundrels with your customary friendliness, and be very
cautious not to betray the least suspicion or the slightest sign of
coolness. Should the impostor bring you another forged letter under the
same cloak of secrecy, as I think he is pretty sure to do, take and keep
it, but tell him quietly that you do not mean to return an answer; nay,
send a message through the knave to me, to this effect--that you beg me
to cease troubling you with letters; that you have made wholesome
reflections, remembering the duty which an honest woman owes her
husband. You may add that you have discovered me to be a wild young
fellow of the worst character, and that you are very sorry to have
intrusted me with your miniature. Paint me as black as you can to the
rascal; if he takes up the cudgels in my defence, as he is sure to do in
order to seduce you, abide by your determination, without displaying any
anger, but only asking him to break the thread of these communications
which annoy you. You may, if matters take a turn in that direction,
waste a ducat or two upon the ruffian, provided he swears that he will
accept no further messages or notes from me. This is the best advice
which I can give you in a matter of considerable peril to your
reputation. Pray carry my directions out with caution and ability.
Remember that your good name is in the hands of people who are
diabolically capable of blackening it before your husband to defend
themselves. I flatter myself that before many days are past you will
find that my counsel was a sound one."

The young woman declared herself convinced by my reasoning. She promised
to execute the plan which I had traced, and vowed that her esteem for me
had been increased. At this point we reached the Giudecca, where she had
to disembark. With a modest pressure of one of her soft hands on mine,
she thanked me for the trouble I had taken in her behalf, begging me to
maintain my cordial feelings toward her, and assuring me that she prized
our friendship among the great good fortunes of her life. I left her
gondola, and reached Venice by another boat, considerably further gone
in love, but with my brain confused and labouring. Love and the curious
story I had heard kept me on the stretch.

A week or more passed before I saw her again. Yet I was always anxious
to meet her, and to hear how she had managed with those sharpers. At
last she showed herself one morning in her workroom; and while I was
passing along by my open window, she threw a paper tied to a pebble into
the room; then disappeared. I picked the missive up, and read the
scroll, of which the purport was to this effect: "She had to pay a visit
to a friend after dinner; her husband had given his permission; could I
meet her at the former hour, and at the former _ponte storto_? There I
should see a gondola waiting with the former ensign of the handkerchief.
She begged me to jump into the boat; for she was sorely pressed to tell
me something." I went accordingly, and found my lady at the rendezvous.
She seemed more beautiful than I had ever seen her, because her face
wore a certain look of cheerfulness which was not usual to it. She
ordered the gondolier, who was not the same as on the previous occasion,
to take a circuit by the Grand Canal, and afterwards to land her in a
certain _rio_ at Santa Margherita. Then she turned to me and said that I
was a famous prophet of events to come. From her bosom she drew forth
another note and handed it to me. It was written in the same hand as the
first. The caricature of passion was the same. I, who was not I,
thanked her for the portrait; vowed that I kept it continually before my
eyes or next my heart. I, who was not I, complained loudly that she had
deserted the window; I was miserable, yet I comforted myself by thinking
that she kept apart from prudent motives. I, who was not I, had no
doubts of her kindness; as a proof of this, being obliged to wait for a
draft, in order to meet certain payments, and the draft not having yet
arrived, I, who was not I, begged for the loan of twenty sequins, to
discharge my obligations. I promised to repay them religiously within
the month. She might give the money to the bearer, a person known to me,
a man of the most perfect confidence, &c., &c.

I confess, that I was angry after reading this. The lady laughed at my
indignant outburst. "How did you deal with the impostor?" I cried.
"Exactly as you counselled me," she answered: "excuse me if I painted
you as black as possible to the fellow. He stood confused and wanted to
explain; but on seeing that my mind was made up, he held his tongue,
completely mortified. I ordered him to talk no more to me about you, and
to accept no further messages or letters. Then I gave him a sequin, on
the clear understanding that he should never utter a word again to me
concerning you. I told him that I was resolved to break off all
relations with you. To what extent our relations have been broken off,
you can see for yourself now in this gondola; and they will only come
to an end when you reject my friendship, which event I should reckon as
my great disaster. I swear this on my honour."

"I must report another favourable circumstance," she continued: "My
husband surprised that rogue in the act of stealing some ducats from a
secret drawer in his bureau. He told the man to pack out with his wife,
threatening to send him to prison if they did not quit our premises at
once." "Were you clever enough," I said, "to affect a great sorrow for
those unfortunate robbers, sent about their business?" "I did indeed try
to exhibit the signs of unaffected sorrow," she replied; "I even made
them believe that I had sought to melt my husband's heart with prayers
and tears, but that I found him firm as marble. I gave them some alms,
and three days ago they dislodged."

"Well done!" I exclaimed: "the affair could not have gone better than it
does. Now, even if your husband asks to see the portrait, it will be
easy to persuade him that they stole it. You will incur no sin of
falsehood; for steal it they did, in good sooth, the arrant pair of
sharpers." "Ah!" cried she, "why cannot I enjoy the privilege of your
society at home? What relief would my oppressed soul find in the company
of such a friend! My sadness would assuredly be dissipated. Alas! it is
impossible. My husband is too too strict upon the point of visitors. I
must abandon this desire. Yet do not cease to love me; and believe that
my sentiment for you exceeds the limits of mere esteem. Be sure that I
shall find occasions for our meeting, if indeed these be not irksome to
yourself. Your modesty and reserve embolden me. I know my duties as a
married woman, and would die sooner than prove myself disloyal to them."
We had now arrived at Santa Margherita. She clasped my hand with one of
the loveliest hands a woman ever had. I wished to lift it to my lips.
She drew it back, and even deigned to bend as though to kiss my own.
That I could not permit; but leapt from the gondola, a simpleton
besotted and befooled by passion. Then she proceeded on her way to the
house she meant to visit.

This heroine of seventeen summers, beautiful as an angel, had inflamed
my Quixotic heart. It would be a crime, I reflected, not to give myself
up to a Lucretia like her, so thoroughly in harmony with my own
sentiments regarding love. "Yes, surely, surely I have found the
phoenix I was yearning for!"

A few days afterwards the pebble was once more flung into my chamber.
The paper wrapped around it spoke of _ponte storto_, gondola, a visit to
a cousin in childbed. I flew to the assignation. Nor can I describe the
exultation, the vivacity, the grace, with which I was welcomed. Our
conversation was both lively and tender; an interchange of sentiments
diversified by sallies of wit. Our caresses were confined to clasped
hands and gentle pressure of the fingers at some mot which caught our
fancy. She never let fall an equivocal word, or gave the slightest hint
of impropriety. We were a pair of sweethearts madly in love with one
another, yet respectful, and apparently contented with the ecstasies of
mutual affection. The pebble and the scroll, the _ponte storto_, and the
gondola were often put in requisition. I cannot say what pretexts she
discovered to explain her conduct to her husband. The truth was that her
visits for the most part consisted in our rowing together to the
Giudecca or to Murano, where we entered a garden of some lonely cottage,
and ate a dish of salad with a slice of ham, always laughing, always
swearing that we loved each other dearly, always well-behaved, and
always melting into sighs at parting. I noticed that in all this
innocent but stolen traffic she changed her gondola and gondolier each
time. This did credit to her caution. We had reached the perfection of a
guiltless friendship--to all appearances, I mean--the inner workings of
imagination and desires are uncontrollable. _You_ had become _thou_, and
yet our love delights consisted merely in each other's company,
exchanging thoughts, clasping hands, and listening now and then to
hearts which beat like hammers.

One day I begged her to tell me the story of her marriage. She replied
in a playful tone: "You will laugh; but you must know I am a countess.
My father, Count so-and-so, had only two daughters. He is a spendthrift,
and has wasted all his patrimony. Having no means to portion off us
girls, he gave my sister in marriage to a corn-factor. A substantial
merchant of about fifty years fell in love with me, and my father
married me to him without a farthing of dowry. At that time I was only
fifteen. Two years have passed since I became the wife of a man who,
barring the austerity of his old-fashioned manners, is excellent, who
maintains me in opulence, and who worships me." (I knew all about the
Count her father, his prodigality and vicious living.) "But during the
two years of your marriage," said I, "have you had no children?" The
young lady showed some displeasure at this question. She blushed deeply,
and replied with a grave haughtiness: "Your curiosity leads you rather
too far." I was stung by this rebuke, and begged her pardon for the
question I had asked, although I could not perceive anything offensive
in it. My mortification touched her sympathy, and pressing my hand, she
continued as follows: "A friend like you has the right to be acquainted
with the misfortune which I willingly endure, but which saddens and
embitters my existence. Know then that my poor husband is far gone in
lung-disease; consumed with fever, powerless; in fact, he is no husband.
Nearly all night long he sheds bitter tears, entreating forgiveness for
the sacrifice imposed upon me of my youth. His words are so ingenuous,
so cordial, that they make me weep in my turn, less for my own than for
his misfortune. I try to comfort him, to flatter him with the hope that
he may yet recover. I assure you that if my blood could be of help, I
would give it all to save his life. He has executed a legal instrument,
recognising my marriage dowry at a sum of 8000 ducats, and is constantly
trying to secure my toleration by generous gifts. One day he pours
ducats into my lap, then sequins, then great golden medals; at another
time it is a ring or a sprig of brilliants; now he brings stuffs for
dresses or bales of the finest linen, always repeating: 'Put them by,
dear girl. Before long you will be a widow. It is the desire of my soul
that in the future you may enjoy happier days than those which now
enchain you to a fatal union.' There then is the story of my marriage.
You now know what you wished to know about my circumstances." Soon after
she resumed, changing her tone to one of pride and dignity: "I am afraid
that this confession, which you extorted from me, may occasion you to
form a wrong conception of my character. Do not indulge the suspicion
that I have sought your friendship in order to obtain vile
compensations. If I discovered the least sign in you of such
dishonouring dirty thoughts, I should lose at once the feeling which
drew me toward you, and our friendship would be irrevocably broken."

I need hardly say that this discovery of a Penelope in my mistress was
exactly what thrilled my metaphysical heart with the most delicious
ecstasy. Six months meanwhile had flown, and we were still at
boiling-point. I used to write her tender and platonic sonnets, which
she prized like gems, fully appreciating their sense and literary
qualities. I also wrote songs for the tunes she knew; and these she used
to sing at home, unseen by me, surpassing the most famous sirens of the
stage by the truth and depth of her feeling. I am afraid that my readers
will be fatigued by the long history of this semi-platonic amour. Yet
the time has now arrived when I must confess that it degenerated at last
into a mere vulgar _liaison_. It pains me; but truth demands that I
should do so. Indeed, it was hardly to be expected that a young man of
twenty and a girl of seventeen should carry on so romantic and ethereal
a friendship for ever.

One day I saw my mistress seated with a very sad expression at her
window. I inquired what had happened. She answered in a low voice that
she had things of importance to communicate, and begged me to be
punctual at the gondola, the _ponte storto_. Nothing more. Her reserve
made me tremble for the future which might lie before us.

She told me that she was much distressed about her husband. He was very
ill. The doctors had recommended him to seek the temperate air of Padua
and the advice of its physicians. He had departed in tears, leaving her
alone with a somnolent old serving-woman. I was genuinely sorry for the
cause of her distress; but the news relieved me of my worst fears. After
expatiating on the sad occurrence and over-acting her grief, I thought,
even to the extent of shedding tears, she entered into a discourse which
presented a singular mixture of good sense, tenderness, and artifice.
"My friend," she said, "it is certain that I must be left a widow after
a few days. How can a widow in my youthful years exist alone, without
protection? I shall only have my father's house to seek as an asylum. He
is a man of broken fortunes, burdened with debts, enslaved to the vices
of extravagance. My natural submission to him as a daughter will be the
ruin of my fortune. After a short space of time I shall be left young,
widowed, and in indigence. I have no one to confide in except yourself,
to whom I have yielded up my heart, my virtue, and my reputation. In my
closet I have stored a considerable sum of money, jewels, gold and
silver objects of value. Will you oblige me by taking care of these
things, so that my father may not lay his talons on them, under the
pretext of guarding my interests in the expected event of my poor
husband's death? Should he succeed in doing so, I am certain that before
two months are over the whole will be dissipated. You will not refuse me
this favour? Little by little I will convey to your keeping all that I
possess. I shall also place in your hands the deed by which my husband
recognised the dowry of which I spoke to you upon another occasion. My
father knows nothing of this document; and in the sad event of my
husband's death it may well be possible that I shall need the assistance
of some lawyer to prove my rights and the maintenance which they secure
me. For the direction of these affairs I trust in you. You love me, and
I doubt not that you will give me your assistance in these painful
circumstances."

I saw clearly that the object of this speech was to bring me to a
marriage without mentioning the subject. Now I was extremely averse to
matrimony for two reasons. First, because I abhorred indissoluble ties
of any sort. Secondly, because my brothers were married, with large
families, and I could not stomach the prospect of charging our estate
with jointures, and of procreating a brood of little Gozzis, all
paupers. Nevertheless, I loved the young woman, felt sincerely grateful
toward her, and in spite of what had happened between us, believed her
to be virtuous and capable of making me a faithful wife. My heart
adapted itself in quiet to the coming change, and conquered its aversion
to a matrimonial bond.

A very surprising event, which I am about to describe, released me from
all obligations to my mistress, dispelled my dreams of marriage, and
nearly broke my heart.

Well; I did my best to comfort the fair lady. I told her that perhaps
her husband's case was not so desperate as she imagined. Next I firmly
refused to become the depositary of her property. My reasons were as
follows. In the first place, I had no receptacle to which the goods
could be transferred with secrecy and safety. In the next place, her
husband might survive and make inquiries. This would compromise the
reputation of both her and me. I thanked her for the confidence she
reposed in me, and vowed that she should always, at the hour of need,
find me ready to support her as the guardian of her rights, her friend,
and a man devoted to her person. She expressed herself satisfied with my
decision; and once again we abandoned ourselves to the transports of a
love which only grew in strength with its indulgence. She was an
extraordinary woman; perfectly beautiful, always graceful, always new.
Even in her hours of passion she preserved a modesty which overwhelmed
my reason. Would that the six months of our platonic love had been
prolonged into a lifetime, instead of yielding place to sensuality! In
that case, the unexpected accident, which cut short our intercourse in a
single moment, would not have inflicted the wound it did upon my
feelings.

A friend of mine came about this time to Venice on business, and took
up his quarters with me. He observed me exchanging some words with this
young lady, and began to banter me, loudly praising my good taste. I
played the part of a prudish youngster, exaggerated the virtues of my
neighbour, and protested that I had never so much as set foot in her
house--which was indeed, the truth. It was not easy to deceive my friend
in anything regarding the fair sex. He positively refused to believe me,
swearing he was sure I was the favoured lover of the beauty, and that he
had read our secret in the eyes of both. "You are a loyal friend to me,"
he added; "but in the matter of your love-affairs, I have always found
you too reserved. Between comrades there ought to be perfect confidence;
and you insult me by making a mystery of such trifles." "I can boast of
no intimacy whatever with that respectable lady," I replied; "but in
order to prove my sincerity toward my friend, I will inform you that
even if I enjoyed such an intimacy as you suspect, I would rather cut my
tongue out than reveal it to any man alive. For me the honour of women
is like a sanctuary. Nothing can convince me that men are bound by
friendship to expose the frailty and the shame of a mistress who has
sacrificed her virtue, trusting that the man she loves will keep the
secret of her fault; nor do I believe that such honourable reticence can
be wounding to a friend." We argued a little on this point, I
maintaining my position, he treating it with ridicule, and twitting me
with holding the opinions of a musty Spanish romance.

Meanwhile he was always on the watch to catch sight of my goddess, and
to exchange conversation with her at the window. He drenched her with
fulsome compliments upon her beauty, her elegance and her discretion,
artfully interweaving his flatteries with references to the close
friendship which had united himself and me for many years. To hear him,
one would have thought that we were more than brothers. She soon began
to listen with pleasure, entering deeper and deeper into the spirit of
these dialogues. Though ready to die of irritation, I forced myself to
appear indifferent. I knew the man to be an honourable and a cordial
friend; but with regard to women, I knew that he was one of the most
redoubtable pirates, the most energetic, the most fertile in resources,
who ever ploughed the seas of Venus. He was older than I; a fine man,
however, eloquent, sharp-witted, lively, resolute and expeditious.

Some days went by in these preliminaries, and the date of his departure
was approaching. In other circumstances I should have been sorry at the
prospect of parting from him. Now I looked forward to it with
impatience. One morning I heard him telling her that he had taken a box
at the theatre of San Luca, and that he was going there that evening
with his beloved friend. He added that it would cheer her up to join
our party, breathe the air, and divert her spirits at the play. She
declined the invitation with civility. He insisted, and called on me to
back him up. She looked me in the face, as though to say: "What do you
think of the project?" My friend kept his eyes firmly fixed on mine,
waiting to detect any sign which might suggest a _No_. I did not like to
betray my uneasiness, and felt embarrassed. I thought it sufficient to
remark that the lady knew her own mind best; she had refused; therefore
she must have good reasons for refusing; I could only approve her
decision. "How!" cried my friend, "are you so barbarous as not to give
this lady courage to escape for once from her sad solitude? Do you mean
to say that we are not persons of honour, to whose protection she can
safely confide herself? Answer me that question." "I cannot deny that we
are," said I. "Well, then," interposed the coquette upon the moment,
much to my surprise, "I am expecting a young woman of my acquaintance,
who comes every evening to keep me company, and to sleep with me, during
the absence of my husband. We will join you together, masked. Wait for
us about two hours after nightfall at the opening of this _calle_."[6]
"Excellent!" exclaimed my friend with exultation; "we will pass a merry
evening. After the comedy we will go to sup at a restaurant. It will
not be my fault if we do not shine to-night." I was more dead than alive
at this discovery. Yet I tried to keep up the appearance of
indifference. Can it be possible, I said in my own heart, that these few
hours have sufficed to pervert a young lady whom I have so long known as
virtuous? Can these few hours have robbed me of a mistress whom I esteem
so highly, who loves me, and who is seeking to win my hand in marriage?

The bargain was concluded, and at the hour appointed we found the two
women in masks at the opening of the _calle_. My friend swooped like a
falcon on my mistress. I remained to man the other girl. She was a
blonde, well in flesh, and far from ugly; but at that moment I did not
take thought whether she was male or female. My friend in front kept
pouring out a deluge of fine sentiments in whispers, without stopping to
draw breath, except when he drew a long sigh. I sighed deeper than he
did, and with better reason. Can it be possible, I thought, that yonder
heroine will fall into his snare so lightly?

We reached the theatre and entered the box. The blonde gave her whole
attention to the play. My friend did not suffer the idol of my heart to
listen to a syllable. He kept on breathing into her ear a torrent of
seductive poisonous trash. What it was all about I knew not, though I
saw her turning red and losing self-control. I chafed with rage
internally, but pretended to follow the comedy, of which I remember
nothing but that it seemed to be interminable. When it was over, we
repaired to the Luna--as before, in couples--my friend with my mistress,
I with the blonde. I never caught a syllable of the stuff which he
dribbled incessantly into his companion's ears. Supper was ordered; a
room was placed at our disposal, and candles lighted. My friend,
meanwhile, never interrupted his flood of eloquence.

[Illustration: GOZZI AND HIS FRIENDS' ADVENTURE IN THE CAFE LUNA

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

[What ensued justified Gozzi in believing that the lady whom he loved
was capable of misconducting herself, and that his friend was ready to
take advantage of her levity. While he was chewing the bitter root of
disillusionment, she provoked an outburst of jealousy which exposed the
situation.]

The ruthless woman came up to me with friendly demonstrations. One of
those blind impulses, which it is impossible to control, made me send
her reeling three steps backwards. She hung her head, confused with
chagrin. My friend looked on in astonishment. The blonde opened her eyes
and mouth as wide as she was able. I pulled myself together, ashamed
perhaps at having shown my anger; then, as though nothing had happened,
I began to complain of the host; "why did he not bring our supper? it
was getting late, and the ladies ought to be going home." I noticed that
my mistress shed some furtive tears. Just then the supper was served,
and we sat down to table. For me it was nothing better than the banquet
of Thyestes. Still I set myself to abusing the comedy, which I had not
heard, and the host, and the viands, swallowing a morsel now and then,
which tasted in my mouth like arsenic. My friend betrayed a certain
perplexity of mind; yet he consumed the food without aversion. My
mistress was gloomy, and scarcely raised a mouthful to her lips with
trembling fingers. The blonde fell too with a good appetite, and partook
of every dish. When the bill was paid, we conducted the ladies back to
their house, and wished them good-night.

No sooner were we alone together, than my friend turned to me and said:
"It is all your fault. You denied that you were intimate with that young
woman. Had you confessed the truth to your friend, he would have
respected your amour. It is your fault, and the loss is yours." "What I
told you, was the truth," I answered: "but permit me now to tell you
another truth. I am sure that she consented to join our company, relying
upon me, and on my guarantee--which I gave at your request--that we were
honourable men, to whom she could commit herself with safety. I cannot
regard it as honourable in a friend to wheedle his comrade into playing
the ignoble part which you have thrust upon me." "What twaddle!"
exclaimed he. "Between friends such things are not weighed in your
romantic scales. True friendship has nothing to do with passing
pleasures of this nature. You have far too sublime a conception of
feminine virtue. My opinion is quite different. The most skilful
arithmetician could not calculate the number of my conquests. I take my
pastime, and let others take theirs." "If a ram could talk," I answered,
"and if I were to question him about his love-affairs with the ewes of
his flock, he would express precisely the same sentiments as yours."
"Well, well!" he retorted: "you are young yet. A few years will teach
you that, as regards the sex you reverence, I am a better philosopher
than you are. That little blonde, by the way, has taken my fancy. The
other woman told me where she lives. To-morrow I mean to attack the
fortress, and I will duly report my victory to you." "Go where you
like," I said: "but you won't catch me again with women at the play or
in a restaurant."

He retired to sleep and dream of the blonde. I went to bed with thoughts
gnawing and a tempest in my soul, which kept me wide-awake all night.
Early next morning my friend took his walks abroad, and at dinner-time
he returned to inform me with amazement that the blonde was an inhuman
tigress; all his artifices had not succeeded in subduing her. "She may
thank heaven," he continued, "that I must quit Venice to-night. The
prudish chatter-box has put me on my mettle. I should like to see two
days pass before I stormed the citadel and made her my victim." He went
away, leaving me to the tormenting thoughts which preyed upon my mind.

I was resolved to break at once and for ever with the woman who had been
my one delight through a whole year. Yet the image of her beauty, her
tenderness, our mutual transports, her modesty and virtue in the midst
of self-abandonment to love, assailed my heart and sapped my resolution.
I felt it would be some relief to cover her with reproaches. Then the
remembrance of the folly to which she had stooped, almost before my very
eyes, returned to my assistance, and I was on the point of hating her.
Ten days passed in this contention of the spirit, which consumed my
flesh. At last one morning the pebble flew into my chamber. I picked it
up, without showing my head above the window, and read the scroll it
carried. Among the many papers I have committed to the flames, I never
had the heart to burn this. The novel and bizzarre self-defence which it
contains made it too precious in my judgment. Here, then, I present it
in full. Only the spelling has been corrected.

"You are right. I have done wrong, and do not deserve forgiveness. I
cannot pretend to have wiped out my sin with ten days of incessant
weeping. These tears are sufficiently explained by the sad state in
which my husband has returned from Padua, reduced to the last extremity.
They will therefore appear only fitting and proper in the sight of
those who may observe them. Alas! would that they were simply shed for
my poor dying husband! I cannot say this; and so I have a double crime
to make me loathe myself.

"Your friend is a demon, who carried me beyond my senses. He persuaded
me that he was so entirely your friend, that if I did not listen to his
suit I should affront _you_. You need not believe what seems incredible;
yet I swear to God that he confused me so and filled my brain with such
strange thoughts that I gave way in blindness, thinking I was paying you
a courtesy, knowing not what I was doing, nor that I was plunging into
the horrible abyss in which I woke to find myself the moment after I had
fallen.

"Leave me to my wretchedness, and shun me. I am unworthy of you; I
confess it. I deserve nothing but to die in my despair. Farewell--a
terrible farewell! Farewell for ever!"

I could not have conceived it possible that any one should justify such
conduct on such grounds. Yet the letter, though it did not change my
mind, disturbed my heart. I reflected on her painful circumstances, with
her husband at the point of death. It occurred to me that I could at
least intervene as a friend, without playing the part of lover any more.
Yet I dared not trust myself to meet the woman who for a whole year had
been the object of my burning passion. At the cost of my life, I was
resolved to stamp out all emotions for one who had proved herself alien
to my way of thinking and of feeling about love. Moreover, I suspected
that she might be exaggerating the illness of her husband, in order to
mollify me. I subdued my inclinations, and refrained from answering her
letter or from seeing her.

The fact is that I soon beheld the funeral procession of her husband
pass beneath my windows, with the man himself upon the bier. I could no
longer refuse credence to her letter.

This revived my sympathy for the unhappy, desolate, neglected beauty. I
was still hesitating, when I met a priest of my acquaintance who told me
that he was going to pay a visit of condolence to the youthful widow.
"You ought to come with me," said he. "It is an act of piety toward one
of your neighbours." I seized the occasion offered, and joined company
with the priest.

I found her plunged in affliction, pale, and weeping. No sooner did she
set eyes upon me, than she bent her forehead and abandoned herself to
tears. "With the escort of this minister of our religion," I began, "I
have come to express my sincere sorrow for your loss, and to lay my
services at your disposal." Her sobs redoubled; and without lifting her
eyes to mine, she broke into these words: "I deserve nothing at your
hands." Then a storm of crying and of sobs interrupted her utterance.
My heart was touched. But reason, or hardness, came to my aid. After
expressing a few commonplaces, such as are usually employed about the
dead, and renewing my proffer of assistance, I departed with the priest.

A full month elapsed before I set eyes on her again. It chanced that I
had commissioned a certain tailoress to make me a waistcoat. Meeting me
in the road, this woman said that she had lost my measure, and asked
whether I would come that evening and let her measure me again. I went,
and on entering a room, to which she introduced me, was stupefied to
find my mistress sitting there in mourning raiment of black silk.[7] I
swear that Andromache, the widow of Hector, was not so lovely as she
looked. She rose on my approach, and began to speak: "I know that you
have a right to be surprised at my boldness in seeking an occasion to
meet with you. I hesitated whether I ought or ought not to communicate a
certain matter to you. At last I thought that I should be doing wrong
unless I told you. I have received offers of marriage from an honest
merchant. You remember what I told you about my father; and now he is
moving heaven and earth to get me under his protection with my little
property. I sought this opportunity of speaking with you, merely that I
might be able to swear to you by all that is most sacred, that I would
gladly refuse any happiness in this life for the felicity of dying in
the arms of such a friend as you are. I am well aware that I have
forfeited this good fortune; how I hardly know, and by whose fault I
could not say. I do not wish to affront you, nor yet the intriguer whom
you call your friend; I am ready to take all the blame on my own
shoulders. Accept, at any rate, the candid oath which I have uttered,
and leave me to my remorseful reflections." Having spoken these words,
she resumed her seat and wept. Armed as I was with reason, I confess
that she almost made me yield to her seductive graces. I sat down beside
her, and taking one of her fair hands in mine, spoke as follows, with
perfect kindness: "Think not, dear lady, that I am not deeply moved by
your affliction. I am grateful to you for the stratagem by which you
contrived this interview. What you have communicated to me with so much
feeling not only lays down your line of action; it also suggests my
answer. Let us relegate to the chapter of accidental mishaps that fatal
occurrence, which will cause me lasting pain, and which remains fixed in
my memory. Yet I must tell you that I cannot regard you, after what then
happened, as I did formerly. Our union would only make two persons
miserable for life. Your good repute with me is in a sanctuary. Accept
this advice then from a young man who will be your good friend to his
dying day. Strengthen your mind, and be upon your guard against
seducers. The opportunity now offered is excellent; accept at once the
proposals of the honest merchant you named to me, and place yourself in
safety under his protection."

I did not wait for an answer; but kissed her hand, and took my leave,
without speaking about my waistcoat to the tailoress. A few months after
this interview she married the merchant. I saw her occasionally in the
street together with her husband. She was always beautiful. On
recognising me, she used to turn colour and drop her eyes. This is as
much as I can relate concerning my third lady-love. It came indeed to my
ears, from time to time, without instituting inquiries, that she was
well-conducted, discreet, exemplary in all her ways, and that she made
an excellent wife to her second husband.




XXXV.

_Reflections on the matter contained in the last three chapters, which
will be of use to no one._


These three love-affairs, which I have related in all their details, and
possibly with indiscreet minuteness, taught me some lessons in life. I
experienced them before I had completed my twenty-second year. They
transformed me into an Argus, all vigilance in regard to the fair sex.
Meanwhile I possessed a heart in some ways differing from the ordinary;
it had suffered by the repeated discovery of faithlessness in women--how
much I will not say; it had suffered also by the brusque acts of
disengagement, which my solid, resolute, and decided nature forced upon
me. The result was that I took good care to keep myself free in the
future from any such entanglements.

I was neither voluptuous by temperament nor vicious by habit. My
reflective faculties controlled the promptings of appetite. Yet I took
pleasure in female society, finding in it an invariable source of
genuine refreshment. With the exception of some human weaknesses, of no
great moment, to which I yielded in my years of manhood, I have always
continued to be the friend and observer of women rather than their
passion-blinded lover.

The net result of my observations upon women is this. The love which
most of them pretend for men, springs mainly from their vanity or
interest. They wish to be surrounded by admirers. They are ambitious to
captivate the hearts and heads of people of importance, in order to
reign as petty queens, to take the lead, to exercise power, to levy
contributions. Or else they ensnare slaves devoted to them, free-handed
managers of theatres, men who will give them the means at balls, at
_petits soupers_, at country-houses, at great entertainments, to
eclipse their rivals, to acquire new lovers, and to betray their
faithful servant, their credulous accomplice in this game of fashion.
Again, they are sometimes spreading nets to catch a complaisant husband,
who will support them in their intrigues.

I was not born to pay court. My position in the world was not so eminent
as to secure a woman's triumph by my influence. I was neither wealthy
enough nor extravagant enough to satisfy a woman's whims in those
ridiculous displays which make her the just object of disdainful satire.
I had no inclination to ruin myself either in my fortune or in my
health. I had conceived a sublime and romantic ideal of the
possibilities of love. Matrimony was wholly alien to my views of
liberty. The consequence was that, after these three earliest
experiences, I regarded the sex with eyes of a philosopher.

I enjoyed the acquaintance of many women in private life, and of many
actresses, remarkable for charm and beauty. Holding the principles I
have described, I found them well contented with my manners of
behaviour. They showed themselves capable of honourable, grateful, and
constant friendship through a long course of years. In truth, it is in
the main to men--to men who flatter and caress the innate foibles of
women, their vanity, their tenderness, their levity, that we must
ascribe the frequency of female frailties.

In conclusion, I will lift my voice to affirm this truth about myself.
Without denying that I have yielded, now and then, but rarely, to some
trivial weakness of our human nature, I protest that I have never
corrupted a woman's thoughts with sophisms. I have never sapped the
principles of a sound education. I have never exposed the duties and
obligations of their sex to ridicule, by clothing license with the name
of liberty. I have never stigmatised the bonds of religion, the conjugal
tie, modesty, chastity, decent self-respect, with the title of
prejudice--reversing the real meaning of that word, as is the wont of
self-styled philosophers, who are a very source of infection to the age
we live in.

Here, then, I leave with you the candid and public confession of my
loves.[8] I have related the circumstances of my birth, my education, my
travels, my friendships, my engrossing occupations, my literary
quarrels, my amorous adventures. It is for you to take them as you find
them. I have written them down at the dictation of mere truth. They are
_useless_, I know, and I only _publish_ them in obedience to the virtue
of _humility_.




XXXVI.

_On the absurdities and contrarieties to which my star has made me
subject._


I wrote the useless memoirs of my life in 1780, down to the age I had
attained in that year; but now that I still find myself alive in 1797,
the vice of scribbling being in my case incorrigible, I am wasting some
more pages on useless memoirs subsequent to that date, and am giving
these in their turn to the public from a motive of humility.

If I were to narrate all the whimsical absurdities and all the untoward
accidents to which my luckless star exposed me, I should have a lengthy
business on my hands. They were of almost daily occurrence. Those alone
which I meekly endured through the behaviour of servants in my employ,
would be enough to fill a volume, and the anecdotes would furnish matter
for madness or laughter.

I will content myself with mentioning one singularity, which was
annoying, dangerous, and absurd at the same time. Over and over again
have I been mistaken by all sorts of people for some one not myself; and
the drollest point is that, in spite of their obstinate persistence, I
was not in the least like the persons they took me for. One day I met
an old artisan at San Pavolo, who ran to meet me, bent down and kissed
the hem of my garment with tears, thanking me with all his heart for
having been the cause of liberating his son from prison through my
influence. I told him firmly that he did not know me, and that he was
mistaking me for some one else. He maintained with great warmth and
assurance that he knew me, and that I was his kind master Paruta. I
perceived that he took me for a Venetian patrician of that name, but I
vainly strove to disabuse him. The good man, thinking perhaps that I
denied the title of Paruta in order to escape his thanks, followed me a
long way with a perfect storm of blessings, vowing to pray to God until
his dying day for my happiness and for that of the whole Paruta family.
I asked a friend who knew the nobleman in question if I resembled him.
He replied that Paruta was lean, tall, very lightly built, with thin
legs and a pale face, and that he had not the least similarity to me.

Everybody knows or did know Michele dall'Agata, the celebrated
impresario of the opera;[9] it is notorious that the fellow was a good
span shorter than me, two palms broader, and wholly different in dress
and personal appearance. Well, through a tedious course of years, as
long as this man lived, it was my misfortune to be stopped upon the road
almost every day, by singers and dancers of both sexes, by
chapel-masters, tailors, painters, letter-carriers, &c., all of whom
mistook me for Michele. I had to listen to interminable complaints,
lengthy expressions of gratitude, inquiries after lodgings, grumblings
about meagre decorations and scanty wardrobes. From the letter-carriers
I had, over and over again, to refuse letters and parcels addressed to
Michele dall'Agata, screaming, protesting, swearing that I was not
Michele. All these persons, when they reluctantly at last took leave,
turned back from time to time and stared at me, like men bereft of
sense, showing their firm conviction that I _was_ Michele, who had
reasons for not wishing to _appear_ Michele. One summer, on reaching
Padua, I learned that Signora Maria Canziani, an excellent and
well-conducted dancer, and my good friend, had lately been confined. I
wished to pay her a visit, and inquired from a woman at her lodgings if
I might be introduced into her room. She responded with these words
addressed to her mistress: "Madam, Signor Michele dall'Agata is waiting
outside, and would like to offer his respects to you." When I entered
the apartment, poor Canziani burst into such peals of laughter at the
woman's blunder that I thought she must have died. Having paid this
visit, I chanced to meet the celebrated professor of astronomy, Toaldo,
on the bridge of San Lorenzo. He knew me perfectly, and I knew him as
well. I bowed; he looked me in the face, lifted his hat with gravity,
and passed onwards, saying: "Addio Michele!" The continual persistence
of this error almost brought me to imagine that I was Michele. If
Michele had earned the ill-will of brutal and revengeful enemies, this
mistaken identity would certainly have been for me no laughing matter.

One very hot evening, when the splendour of the moon was turning night
into day, I went abroad to take the air, and was conversing with the
patrician Francesco Gritti on the piazza of San Marco. I heard a voice
behind me saying: "What are you doing here at this hour? Why don't you
go to bed and sleep, you ass?" These words were accompanied with two
smart raps upon my back. I turned to resent the affront, and found
myself facing the patrician Cavaliere Andrea Gradenigo, who gazed
fixedly at me, and then exclaimed: "Pray pardon me! I could have sworn
that you were Daniele Zanchi." Some explanations and excuses followed
regarding the cuffs and the title of ass, which I had got through being
taken for a Daniele. The cavaliere, it seems, was familiar enough with
this fellow to call him ass and give him a couple of thwacks in sign of
amicable pleasantry.

Not less whimsical was the following incident of the same description. I
happened to be talking one very fine day with my friend Carlo Andrich on
the Piazza di San Marco, when I observed a Greek, with mustachios, long
coat, and red cap, who had with him a boy dressed in the same costume.
When he saw me, the Greek ran up to us, exhibiting ecstatic signs of
joy. After embracing and kissing me with rapture, he turned to the boy
and said: "Come, lad, and kiss the hand here of your uncle Costantino."
The boy seized and kissed my hand. Carlo Andrich stared at me; I stared
at Carlo Andrich: we were like a pair of images. At length I asked the
Greek for whom he took me. "What a joke!" said he; "aren't you my dear
friend Costantino Zucala?" Andrich held his sides to save himself from
bursting, and it took me seven minutes to persuade the Greek that I was
not Signor Constantino Zucala. On making inquiries with people who knew
Signor Zucala, I was assured that this worthy merchant was a short fat
man, without one grain of resemblance to myself.

I shall probably have wearied out my readers by relating the hundredth
part of such occurrences. I will now glance at the hundredth part of the
contretemps which were continually annoying me.

In winter or in spring, in summer or in autumn, the same thing always
happened. If I chanced to be caught by some sudden unexpected downpour,
I might kick my heels as long as I liked under a colonnade or in a shop,
waiting till the rain stopped and I could get home dry; but not on one
single occasion did I ever have the consolation of seeing out the
deluge; on the contrary, it invariably redoubled in fury, as though to
spite me. Goaded at last by the nuisance of this eternal useless
waiting, fretful and eager to find myself at home, I exposed myself in
all meekness to the deluge, and reached my dwelling wet to the skin,
dripping with water. But no sooner had I arrived in this pitiful plight,
unlocked the door, and taken shelter, than the clouds rolled by and the
sun began to show his face, just as though he meant to laugh at my
discomfort.

Eight times out of ten, through the whole course of my life, when I
hoped to be alone, and to occupy my leisure with reading or writing for
my own distraction and amusement, letters or unexpected visitors, more
tiresome even than worrying thoughts or importunate letters, would come
to interrupt me and put my patience on the rack. Eight times out of ten,
since I began to shave, no sooner had I set myself before the
looking-glass, than people arrived in urgent haste to speak with me on
business, or persons of importance, whom I could not keep waiting in the
ante-chamber. I had to wash the soap-suds from my face, and leave my
room half-shaved, to listen to such folk on business, or to people of
quality whom good manners forced me to oblige.

What I am going to relate is hardly decent, yet I shall tell it, because
it is the simple truth, and furnishes a good example of these
persecuting contrarieties. Almost every time when a sudden necessity
has compelled me to seek some lonely corner in a street, a door is sure
to open, and a couple of ladies appear. In a hurry I run up another
blind alley, and lo and behold another pair of ladies make their
entrance on the scene. The result is, that I am compelled to dodge from
pillar to post, suffering the gravest inconveniences, to which my
modesty exposes me. These, however, are but trifles, mere irritating
gnat-bites.

Those who have the patience to read the remaining chapters of my insipid
Memoirs, will admit that the evil star of these untoward circumstances
never ceased to plague me. Certainly the troubles in which poor Pietro
Antonio Gratarol, for whom I was sincerely sorry, involved me by his
strange behaviour, were not slight or inconsiderable.

I think that the following incident is sufficiently comic to be worth
narration. I was living in the house of my ancestors, in the Calle della
Regina at S. Cassiano. The house was very large, and I was its sole
inhabitant; for my two brothers, Francesco and Almoro, had both married
and settled in Friuli, leaving me this mansion as part of my
inheritance. During the summer months, when people quit the city for the
country, I used also to visit Friuli. I was in the habit of leaving the
keys of my house with a corn-merchant, my neighbour, and a very honest
man. It chanced one autumn, through one of the tricks my evil fortune
never ceased to play, that rains and inundations kept me in Friuli
longer than usual, far indeed into November. Snow upon the mountains,
and the winds which brought fine weather, caused an intense cold. I
travelled toward Venice, well enveloped in furs, traversing deep bogs,
floundering through pitfalls in the road, and crossing streams in flood.
At last, one hour after nightfall, I arrived, half dead with the
discomforts of the journey, congealed, fatigued, and wanting sleep. I
left my boat at the post-house near S. Cassiano, made a porter shoulder
my portmanteau, and a servant take my hat-box under his arm. Then I set
off home, wrapped up in my pelisse, all anxiety to put myself into a
well-warmed bed. When we reached the Calle della Regina, we found it so
crowded with people in masks and folk of all sexes, that it was quite
impossible for my two attendants with their burdens to push a way to my
house-door. "What the devil is the meaning of this crowd?" I asked a
bystander. "The patrician Bragadino has been made Patriarch of Venice
to-day," was the man's reply. "They are illuminating and keeping
open-house; doles of bread, wine, and money are being given to the
people for three days. This is the reason of the enormous crowd." On
reflecting that the door of my house was close to the bridge by which
one passes to the Campo di Santa Maria Mater Domini, I thought that, by
making a turn round the Calle called del Ravano, I might be able to get
out into the Campo, then cross the bridge, and effect an entrance into
my abode.[10] I accomplished this long detour together with the bearers
of my luggage; but when I reached the Campo, I was struck dumb with
astonishment at the sight of my windows thrown wide open, and my whole
house adorned with lustres, ablaze with wax-candles, burning like the
palace of the sun. After standing half a quarter of an hour agaze with
my mouth open to contemplate this prodigy, I shook myself together, took
heart of courage, crossed the bridge, and knocked loudly at my door. It
opened, and two of the city guards presented themselves, pointing their
spontoons at my breast, and crying, with fierceness written on their
faces: "There is no road this way." "How!" exclaimed I, still more
dumbfounded, and in a gentle tone of voice: "why can I not get in here?"
"No, sir," the terrible fellows answered; "there is no approach by this
door. Take the trouble to put on a mask, and seek an entrance by the
great gate which you see there on the right hand, the gate of the
Palazzo Bragadino. Wearing a mask you will be permitted to pass in by
that door to the feast." "But supposing I were the master of this
house, and had come home tired from a journey, half-frozen, and dropping
with sleep, could I not get into my own house and lay myself down in my
bed?" This I said with all the phlegm imaginable. "Ah! the master?"
replied those truculent sentinels: "please to wait, and you will receive
an answer." With these words they shut the door stormily in my face. I
gazed, like a man deprived of his senses, at the porter and the servant.
The porter, bending beneath his load, and the servant looked at me like
men bewitched. At last the door opened again, and a majordomo, all laced
with gold, appeared upon the threshold. Making many bows and
inclinations of the body, he invited me to enter. I did so, and passing
up the staircase, asked that reverend personage what was the enchantment
which had fallen on my dwelling. "So! you know nothing then?" he
answered. "My master, the patrician Gasparo Bragadino, foreseeing that
his brother would be elected Patriarch, and wanting room for the usual
public festival, was desirous of uniting this house to his own by a
little bridge of communication thrown across the windows. The scheme was
executed with your consent. It is here that a part of the feast is being
celebrated, and bread and money thrown from the windows to the people.
All the same, you need not fear lest the room in which you sleep has not
been carefully reserved and closed with scrupulous attention. Come with
me, come with me, and you shall soon see for yourself." I remained
still more confounded by this news of a permission, which no one had
demanded, and which I had not given. However, I did not care to exchange
words with a majordomo about that. When I came into the hall, I was
dazzled by the huge wax-candles burning, and stunned by the servants and
the masks hurrying to and fro and making a mighty tumult. The noise in
the kitchen attracted me to that part of the house, and I saw a huge
fire, at which pots, kettles, and pipkins were boiling, while a long
spit loaded with turkeys, joints of veal, and other meats, was turning
round. The majordomo ceremoniously kept entreating me, meanwhile, to
visit my bedroom, which had been so carefully reserved and locked for
me. "Please tell me, sir," I said, "how late into the night this din
will last?" "To speak the truth," he answered, "it will be kept up till
daybreak for three consecutive nights." "It is a great pleasure to me,"
I said, "to possess anything in the world which could be of service to
the Bragadino family. This circumstance has conferred honour on me. Pray
make my compliments to their Excellencies. I shall go at once to find a
lodging for the three days and three consecutive nights, being terribly
in need of rest and quiet." "Out upon it!" replied the majordomo, "you
really must stay here, and take repose in your own house, in the room
reserved with such great care for you." "No, certainly not," I said. "I
thank you for your courteous pains in my behalf. But how would you have
me sleep in the midst of this uproar? My slumber is somewhat of the
lightest." Then, bidding the porter and the servant follow me, I went to
spend the three days and the three consecutive nights in patience at an
inn.

Having slept off my fatigue that night, I paid a visit of congratulation
to the Cavaliere Bragadino on the elevation of his brother to the
Patriarchate. He received me with the utmost affability; expressed
annoyance at what he had learned from his majordomo, and told me with
the most open candour that the patrician Count Ignazio Barziza had
positively dispatched a courier with a letter to me in Friuli, begging
permission to use my mansion for the feast-days of the Patriarch, and
that I had by my answer given full consent. To this I replied that in
truth I had seen neither messenger nor letters, but that he had done me
the greatest pleasure by making use of my poor dwelling. Wishing higher
honours to his family, I added that if such should befall, without
seeking the intervention of Count Barziza, he was at liberty to throw my
doors and windows open and freely to avail himself of my abode. Take
this affair as you choose, it earned for me the estimable good-will of
the patrician Bragadino, caused me to sojourn three days and three
nights in an inn, and gave me occasion to relate one of my innumerable
contretemps.

If I were to expand this chapter with an account of all the
contrarieties I suffered as a house-owner in Venice, it would grow into
a volume.[11] Having to reside in the city, I judged it prudent to take
our property there in exchange for some farms in Friuli. I very soon
perceived that the advantage of this barter fell to my brothers
Francesco and Almoro. My tenants refused to pay their rents, and made
perpetual demands for alterations and repairs. Masons, carpenters,
glaziers, smiths, pavement-layers, emptiers of cesspools, ate up a third
of my revenues. Lawsuits to recover arrears devoured a large part of the
remaining two-thirds. Bad debts, empty houses, and taxes reduced the
total to a bare fifth. Beside this annual loss to my pocket, I was
driven to my wits' ends by the vagaries of the tenants.

I will select two examples. One day a woman of respectable appearance
came, and asked for the lease of an empty house I had on the Giudecca. I
granted her request, and she paid the first instalment of her rent.
After this first payment, all my clamours, demands for arrears, and
menaces were thrown to the winds. She actually inhabited my house for
three years, and discharged her obligations with the coin of promises
and sometimes insults. I offered to make her a free present of her debt
if she would only decamp. This roused her to a state of fury. "Was she
not a woman of honour?" she exclaimed: "she was wont to pay up
punctually, and not to accept alms." At last I had recourse to the
Avvogadori, one of whom sent for the woman, endured her chatter, and
intimated that she must give the house up at the expiration of eight
days. Accordingly, I went to take possession of my property; but
no!--there was the woman, comfortably ensconced with her own family, as
though the house belonged to her. Again I applied to the court. Bailiffs
were dispatched, who turned my tenants with their furniture into the
streets. The keys of the house were placed in my hands, and I crossed
over to the Giudecca to inspect the damaged tenement, of which, at last,
I felt myself once more the owner. Vain error! That heroic woman, at the
head of her family, had scaled the walls of the fortress by a ladder,
entered through a window, and encamped herself in the middle of the
conquered citadel. I need not add that I finally got rid of this
tormenting gadfly. But what a state the house was in! No locks, no
bolts, no doors, no windows; everything reduced to desolation.

On another occasion I happened to have a house empty at S. Maria Mater
Domini. One morning a man, who had the dress and appearance of a
gondolier, presented himself. He informed me that he was a gondolier in
the service of a cittadino at S. Jacopo dall'Orio. His own abode was at
S. Geremia; and the great distance from his master's dwelling made his
service difficult. My house at S. Maria would exactly suit him; the
money for the first instalment of the rent was ready, if I would take
him as a tenant. "What is your name?" I asked. "Domenico Bianchi." "And
your master's?" "Signor Colombo." "Very well," said I; "I shall make
inquiries of your master; for I have so often got into hot water that I
am even afraid of cold." He urged me not to postpone matters; his wife
was expecting her confinement every hour; it was of the utmost
importance that he should be able to install her at once in their new
abode. "Well, well," said I, "you don't suppose that she will be laid-in
this afternoon, do you? I will go to Signor Colombo after dinner; and if
his report of you is satisfactory, you may take the keys as early as you
like to-morrow." "You are right," replied the fellow; "although I know
myself to be an honest man, I do not pretend that you should not inquire
into my character. Only pray be quick about the business."

With this he went away; but scarcely had I dined, when the gondolier
reappeared, leading by the hand a young woman. Half in tears, he began
as follows: "Here is my poor wife in the first pangs of labour. For the
love of Jesus, let us into your house. I am afraid it is already too
late, and that she will be confined upon the street." As a matter of
fact, the young person showed by her figure, and by the extraordinary
contortions of her face and body, that what he said was the truth.
Mortally afraid that she might not be able to leave my mansion, I rushed
to the writing-table, scribbled out an agreement, took the customary
month's payment, and sent the couple off with the keys of my house.

Some weeks later on, the parish priest of S. Maria arrived all fuming
with excitement, and cried out: "To whom the devil have you let your
house in such-and-such a street?" "To a certain Domenico Bianchi, the
gondolier of the Colombo family, whose wife was on the point of being
confined." "What Domenico Bianchi? What Colombo? What gondolier? What
wife?" exclaimed he in still greater heat. "The fellow keeps a
disorderly house; and she is one of his hussies. When they came to you,
she had a cushion stuffed beneath her clothes. They sell wine, draw all
the disreputable people of the quarter together, and are the scandal of
my parish. If you do not immediately get rid of the nuisance, you will
be guilty of a mortal sin." I calmed him down, and made him laugh by the
account I gave him of my interview with the _soi-disant_ married couple.
Then I promised to dislodge the people on the spot.

This was sooner said than done. I first applied to the Avvogadori, who
washed their hands of the affair. Then I begged the priest to lay an
information before the Esecutori contro la Bestemmia.[12] He positively
refused, telling me that loose women were only too powerfully protected
at Venice, and that he had already burned his fingers on a previous
occasion by proceeding against a notorious evil-liver. It was no
business of his, and I must get out of the scrape as well as I could.

To cut the story short, I was eventually relieved by my friend Paolo
Balbi, who applied the following summary but efficacious remedy. "I
informed Messer Grande of your affair,"[13] said Balbi, while explaining
his proceedings: "he, as you are well aware, commands the whole tribe of
constables and tipstaves; and I begged him to find some way of ousting
the _canaille_ from your house. Messer Grande dispatched one of his
myrmidons, one who knows these hussies, to tell them, under the pretext
of a charitable warning, that the chief of the police had orders to take
them all up and send them handcuffed to prison. In their fright, the
nest of rogues dispersed and left the quarter." After laughing heartily
over the affair, and thanking my good friend, I walked home, reflecting
deeply on red tape in public offices, perversions of legal justice, and
the high-handed proceedings of that generous and expeditious judge,
_Messer Grande_.[14]




XXXVII.

_A review of the origin and progress of the literary quarrels in which I
was engaged.--Also of the foundation of the Accademia Granellesca.--A
diatribe on prejudice.--Father Bettinelli._


The introduction to the first volume of my dramatic caprices (published
in 1772) gave a sufficiently full account of the dates and origins of my
ten _Fiabe Teatrali_, together with some notice of the literary quarrels
which occasioned them.[15] Yet I find it necessary to pass these matters
once more in review, since they concerned me not a little for the space
of twenty-five years and more, and have consequently much to do with my
Memoirs.

Here then are the steps which led me to bring those poetical
extravagances on the stage--extravagances which I never sought to value
or have valued at more than their true worth--which never had, or have,
or will have detractors among real lovers of literature--which always
had, and have, and will have the entire population of great cities for
their friends--which made, and make, and will for ever make a certain
sort of self-styled _literati_ mad with rage--Here then, as I said, are
the steps which led me to their publication.

I must begin by confessing three weaknesses, which pertained to my way
of looking upon literature.

In the first place, I resented the ruin of Italian poetry, established
in the thirteenth century, fortified and strengthened in the fourteenth,
somewhat shaken in the fifteenth, revived and consolidated in the
sixteenth by so many noble writers, spoiled in the seventeenth,
rehabilitated at the end of the last and at the beginning of the present
eighteenth century, then given over to the dogs and utterly corrupted by
a band of blustering fanatics during the period which we are doomed to
live in. These men, who have wrought the ruin I resent by their pretence
to be original, by their habit of damning our real masters and
institutors in the art of writing as puerile and frigid pedants,--these
men who lead the youth astray from solid methods and praiseworthy
simplicity, incite them to trample under foot whatever in past centuries
was venerated like the angel who conducted young Tobias, hurl them with
hungry and devouring intellects into the gulf of entities which have no
actual existence--these men, I say, have turned a multitude of hopeful
neophytes, if only they were guided by sound principles, into mere
visionary fools and the demoniacs of spurious inspiration.

In the second place, I resented the decadence of our Italian language
and the usurpations of sheer ignorance upon its purity. Purity of
diction I regarded as indispensable to plain harmonious beauty of
expression, to felicitous development of thought, to just illumination
of ideas, and to the proper colouring of sentiment, especially in works
of wit and genius in our idiom.

In the third place, I resented the extinction of all sense for
proportion and propriety in style, that sense which prompts us to treat
matters sublime, familiar, and facetious upon various planes and in
different keys of feeling, whether the vehicle employed be verse or
prose. Instead of this, one monstrous style, now bombastically turgid,
now stupidly commonplace, has become the fashion for everything which is
written or sent to press, from the weightiest of arguments down to the
daily letter which a fellow scribbles to his mistress.

Let it not be supposed, however, that my resentment against these
literary curses of our century--for such I thought them--ever goaded me
beyond my naturally jesting humour. All the compositions I have printed
on the topics in dispute, regarding purity of diction, ancient authors,
and the corrupters of young minds in Italy, witness to my joviality and
coolness in the zeal and ardour of the conflict.

Finally, I must confess that all my endeavours in the good cause, joined
to those of others, have been impotent to stem the tide of extravagance,
the exaltation of heated brains, the absurdities of so-called
philosophical reforms; also, as regards the purity of Italian diction,
all that we have said and written has been thrown away. The charlatans
have had the upper hand of us, by persuading the vast multitude of
working brains that to seek purity in language is a waste of time and
hide-bound imbecility, and that to spare the pains of gaining it is a
mark of free and liberal talent. The remedy must be left to time and to
the inscrutable ebb and flow of fashion, which makes the world at one
time eager for the true, at another no less eager for the false, in
spite of any human efforts to control it.

It was about the year 1740, when an Academy was founded in Venice by
some people of gay humour, versed in literary studies, and amateurs of
polish and simplicity and nature. Caprice and chance brought us
together. But we followed in the wake of Chiabrera, Redi, Zeno,
Manfredi, Lazarini, valiant predecessors in the warfare against those
false, emphatic, metaphorical, and figured fashions, which had been
introduced like plague-germs by the Seicentisti.[16] This Academy imbued
the minds of young men with higher ideas, and fostered the seeds it
planted by a generous emulation.

The lively and learned little band happened to alight upon a simpleton
called Giuseppe Secchellari, who had been bamboozled by his own vanity
and the cozenage of merry knaves agog for fun into thinking himself a
man of profound erudition, and who accordingly blackened reams of paper
with ineptitudes and blunders so ridiculous that nobody could listen to
them without fits of laughter. It was decided to elect this queer fish
Prince of the Academy. The election took place unanimously amid shouts
of merriment. He was dubbed Arcigranellone, and received the title of
Prince of the Accademia Granellesca, by which names he and the club were
henceforth to be known.[17]

A solemn coronation of this precious simpleton with a wreath of plums
followed in due course. All the Academicians were grouped around him,
and nothing could be more burlesque than his proud satisfaction at the
honours he received, the air and grace with which he thanked us for some
thirty odes and rigmaroles, which were really witty squibs and gibes
upon our princely butt, and which he took for panegyrics.

A large arm-chair of antique build and very high, so high that the
dwarfish Prince had to take two or three jumps before he leaped into
it, was the throne from which he lorded over us. There he sat and
swaggered, having been gulled into thinking it the chair of Cardinal
Pietro Bembo, that renowned and illustrious author. An owl with two
balls in its right claw stood over him, and was the object of his
veneration as the crest of the Academy. Perched there aloft, he used to
draw from his bosom a roll of papers, and recited in a quavering
falsetto some preposterous gibberish or other which he styled a
dissertation. After a few lines had been declaimed, the clapping of
hands and mocking plaudits of his audience brought him to a pause. Fully
persuaded that he had entranced his hearers, he then handed his
manuscripts with majestic condescension to the secretary, and bade him
enroll them in the archives of the Academy.

When we met together in the heat of summer, iced drinks were handed
round to the members; but the prince, to mark his superiority, received
a bowl of boiling tea upon a silver salver. In the depth of winter, on
the other hand, hot coffee was served out to us and iced water to the
Prince. The venerable Arcigranellone, puffed up with this distinction,
swallowed the tea in summer and the water in winter, dissolving into
sweat or shivering with cold according to the season.

I could not reckon all the pleasantries, for ever new and always witty,
which we played off upon our Prince, and which his stupid vanity made
him accept as honours. Each time the Academy met, these diversions acted
like an antidote to melancholy. And since he never would admit that he
was ignorant of anything a member asked, at one time he was made to
rhyme extempore, at another to sing a song, and sometimes even to
descend and strip to the shirt and fence with a master in the noble art,
who rained down whacks with the foil upon his hide and sent him spinning
like a peg-top round the room. Arcigranellone as he truly was, the man
essayed everything, and never failed to triumph in the deafening
derisive plaudits which he raised.

This novel kind of Calandrino,[18] of whom I am sketching a mere
outline, served chiefly as a lure to young men who care more for mirth
than serious scholarship, and drew them to enroll themselves with zeal
beneath the banner of the owl.

When we had amused ourselves enough, at the commencement of our
sessions, with the marvellous diatribes, wholly unexpected answers, and
harlequinesque contortions of our Arcigranellone, we left him up there
alone upon the chair of Bembo, and drew from our portfolios compositions
in prose and verse, serious or facetious as the theme might be, but
sensible, judicious, elegant in phrase, varied in style, and correct in
diction. An agreeable reading followed, which entertained the audience
for at least two hours. Each reader, when he had finished his
recitation, turned to the Arcigranellone, whose whimsical opinions and
distorted reasonings renewed the clatter of tongues and laughter.

This serio-comic Academy had for its object to promote the study of our
best old authors, the simplicity and harmony of chastened style, and
above all the purity of the Italian tongue. It drew together a very
large number of young men emulous of these things; and few foreigners of
culture came to Venice without seeking to be admitted to its sessions. I
shall not attempt to catalogue the names of its innumerable members. But
I may observe that many names might be found upon our books whose owners
had no inkling of the fact; for the following reason. Some of our
merriest wags used to amuse themselves and the company by inflating the
Arcigranellone's vanity with burlesque epistles addressed to him by very
exalted personages. These great people wrote to say that, induced by the
renown of his learning, wise rule, and sublime administration of his
principality, they begged to be inscribed by him upon the list of his
fortunate subjects, the Academicians. In this way it came about that
Frederick II. of Prussia, the Sultan, the Sophy of Persia, Prester John,
and other notables of like eminence, appeared among us on paper. All the
members, I ought to mention, had an academical name assigned to them
and published by his Magnificence the Prince. I was dubbed the Solitary.

The compositions produced in our Academy were candidly exposed to
criticism; and, after receiving polish at the hands of accomplished
scholars in the club, many works of style and value, in all kinds of
verse and prose, went forth to the world. Serious poems, humorous poems,
satires in the manner of Berni, Horatian satires with the masculine and
trenchant phrase of ancient Rome, orations on occasions of importance in
the State, dissertations in defence of the great masters of Italian
literature, commentaries upon Dante, novellettes in graceful diction,
familiar letters, volumes of occasional and moral essays, Latin verses
and prose exercises, translations from choice books in foreign
languages; all these, after passing the review of the Academicians, were
sent to press. I need not speak further about what has become common
property through publication.

Perhaps I shall be accused by modern innovators of seeking to attach
importance to frivolities. That will not hurt me. Those are far more
hurt and wounded who allow themselves to be seduced into believing that
the works of these same innovators contain things better worth their
notice than frivolities--uncouth frivolities, ill-thought, unnatural,
and written in a monstrous jargon.

Who could have imagined that a single word, wrested from its proper
sense, made common in the mouths of boys and women to denote what does
not suit their inclinations, should have the power to turn established
rules--based on the experience of sages, and confirmed by ancient
usage--all topsy-turvy? This word is nothing more nor less, in naked
truth, than--_prejudice_.[19]

I have just said that the word in question has been wrested from its
proper meaning; and I am prepared to maintain this proposition.
According to my principles, which will have to bear the shame of being
stigmatised as _prejudices_ by the innovators, it is impossible to apply
the term 'prejudice' to things which are not only harmless, but
beneficial, nay, necessary to the totality of mankind.

Now I am bound to believe that religion and its accessories are
beneficial to society and nations. But our new-fangled philosophers have
dubbed all these things the prejudices of intellects enfeebled and
intimidated by seductive superstition. Consequently, religion, that
salutary curb on human passion, has languished and become a
laughing-stock.

I am bound to believe that the gallows is beneficial to society, being
an instrument for punishing crime and deterring would-be criminals. But
our new-fangled philosophers have denounced the gallows as a tyrannical
prejudice, and by so doing have multiplied murders on the highway,
robberies and acts of sacrilege, a hundred-fold.

I am bound to believe that heroism, probity, good faith and equity are
beneficial to society. But our unprejudiced philosophers, who identify
felicity with enjoyment and getting hold by any means of what you can,
call these virtues mere romantic prejudices. Accordingly, justice has
been sold with brazen impudence, knaveries and tricks and treachery have
triumphed, and a multitude of simple, innocent, down-trodden creatures,
poor in spirit and impoverished in substance, have wept tears of blood.

It was pronounced a musty and barbarous prejudice to keep women at home,
for the supervision of their sons and daughters, their hirelings, their
domestic service and economy. Immediately, the women poured forth from
their doors, storming like Bacchantes, screaming out "Liberty! liberty!"
The streets swarmed with them. Their children, servants, daily duties,
were neglected. They meanwhile abandoned their vapoury brains to
fashions, frivolous inventions, rivalries in games, amusements, loves,
coquetries, and all sorts of nonsense which their own caprices and their
counsellors, the upstart sages, could suggest. The husbands had not
courage to oppose this ruin of their honour, of their substance, of
their families. They were afraid of being pilloried with that dreadful
word, prejudice.

The law which punishes infanticide with death was styled a prejudice.
Good morals, modesty, and chastity received the name of
prejudice--enforced, so ran the tale, by bugbears of the Levites and the
foolish training of poor superstitious females. What the result was, I
blush to record. The infinite advantages conferred upon society and
families by these fine philosophical discoveries, and by their triumph
over prejudices of the sort I have described, had better remain
unwritten.

The few who stood aloof and mocked at fashions--fashions which fade and
fall each year like autumn leaves--were quizzed as ignoramuses,
blockheads, zanies tainted with the leprosy of prejudice.[20] They
passed for stolid, coarse-grained creatures, void of thrill, of
sentiment, of taste, of culture, delicacy, and refined perception. Women
and men, in one vast herd, became illuminated visionaries. They piqued
themselves upon their intuition and originality. They discovered endless
harmonies and discords, all imaginary; endless comforts and discomforts,
all imaginary; endless imaginary savours, insipidities, depravities in
things about them, in furniture, in dress, in colours, in decorations,
in the kitchen, in food, in wine, in dressing of the table, all
imaginary. They detected elegance or inelegance in every dumb and
senseless object: down to the basest of utensils there was nothing which
escaped the epithet of elegant. Let thus much be said for truth's sake,
with the patience which is needful nowadays in speaking truth to folk
infected by the real and not the spurious leprosy of prejudice.

Well, when all the so-called prejudices which I have just described had
been put to flight and dissipated by the piercing sunbeams of the
innovators, many great and remarkable blessings appeared in their room.
These were the blessings of irreligion, of respect and reverence
annulled, of justice overturned, of law-courts made the play-ground for
flagitious vices, of criminals encouraged and bewept, of heated
imaginations, sharpened senses, animalism, indulgence in all lusts and
passions, of imperious luxury, with her brood of violent insatiable
desires, deceits, intrigues, oppressions, losses of faith and honesty
and honour, swindlings, pilferings, bankruptcies, pecuniary straits,
base traffickings in sexual bargains, adulteries, the marriage-tie made
unendurable and snapped by force or cold collusion.

After such wise, by turning the innocent word 'prejudice' into a weapon
of attack against everything which restrained vice, crime, illicit
pleasure, violence, and social profligacy--against whatever, in short,
rationally deserves to be called prejudice--the human race plunged
willingly and universally into a pitiable and apparently immedicable
state of pure unvarnished prejudice. And this has been effected by the
flattering enthusiasm for curing us of prejudices! Indeed it is fine to
notice how that poor word 'prejudice' is bandied about. The folk who
suffer from the real disease, and who complain most loudly of its
miserable consequences, declare themselves atheists, declaim against
what they call prejudice in their sophisticated jargon, while they
bless the legitimate, veracious prejudice, which is the fount and source
of all the evils over which they weep, lament, and shriek.

Compared with these weighty topics, what follows may appear a trifle
hardly worthy of consideration. I allude to the revolution in literary
taste attempted by the Jesuit Father, now the Abbe Xavier Bettinelli,
together with some other restless spirits. Twisting that unfortunate
word 'prejudice' to suit their purpose, they scouted sound studies,
established models, correction of style, and the authority of
acknowledged masters. All such things were reckoned prejudices by these
iconoclasts, who would fain have burned down the temple of Diana in
their insolent ambition to be stared at as new stars, original thinkers,
independent writers.

Bettinelli, a man not destitute of parts, fecundity, and eloquence,
began by preaching to our youth that it was a prejudice to stand at gaze
and slumber over our old authors. What good could the study of Dante,
Petrarch, and Boccaccio do us now? How could the imitation of their
successors in Italian poetry and prose be profitable to us in the middle
of the eighteenth century? Students of the good old type he derided as
arid word-mongers, who had lost their wits by poring over languid,
prosy, frigid models of an antiquated style. To Dante, without
understanding him, he condescendingly allowed a few fine verses, a few
felicitous images, amid that vast ocean of scurrilities and repulsive
barbarisms--the Divine Comedy!

This would-be innovator was possibly justified in his contempt for the
fashionable keepsake books of poetry which we call _Raccolte_.[21] I
will not defend them, though much might plausibly be urged in favour of
a custom which does no harm, which reflects lustre on noble families,
and which affords the rich an opportunity of succouring needy men of
letters. However that may be, Bettinelli wrote and published a satire
entitled _Le Raccolte_, which was intended to crush them, and to serve
as a specimen of his originality in works of fancy. The Granelleschi had
always watched with humorous attention Signor Bettinelli's pranks and
gambols, and they now resolved on doing something to sober him down a
bit. Two of the best scholars in the Academy, Signor Marco Forcellini
and the Abbe Dottore Natale dalle Laste, undertook the task of examining
his poem. They had little difficulty in proving that its author, while
seeking to pass for a giant of original genius, was nothing better than
the servile plagiarist of Ariosto and Boileau. This conclusion they put
forth in an essay, entitled "A criticism of the little poem _Le
Raccolte_." It seemed to us, however, that the essay was somewhat
serious in style for an Academy which aimed at playfulness. Accordingly,
I was commissioned to enliven it with an epistle in a lighter strain.
This epistle I wrote, as my poor brains dictated, but with perhaps too
much of boldness and asperity. The essay and the epistle were published
together in one volume. Meanwhile, my brother Gasparo, indignant that
Dante, whose resplendent genius has shed the light of glory upon Italy
through so many centuries, should become the butt of a mere seeker after
notoriety, wrote his _Defence of Dante_, which was also printed.
Intelligent judges allow that this book is full of truth, and that its
arguments are convincingly victorious over Bettinelli's arrogant and
puerile scoffings. I am therefore at liberty to say that my brother's
_Difesa di Dante_ is a really fine work.

What good came of these polemics? Very little, I am bound to say.
Novelties, whether they are really new or only seem to be so, have the
power of seducing and exciting innumerable intellects among the mass of
those who cannot grasp the truth, but who respond at once to clamorous
fanaticism. In number such folk infinitely exceed the small minority
who, remaining loyal to truth, seek her even at the bottom of the well
into which imposture plunges her.

I have always shared the hardihood of politicians, who dare to raise
their minds aloft, and look down from a height upon the lowly vale in
which humanity resides. But with this difference: They regard the
valley as inhabited by a swarm of insects, whom it is their art to sway,
oppress, and drive about in their own interest; nor do they stoop to
fraternise with these same insects until death reduces all to one
brotherhood. I regard the valley as peopled by creatures of my kith and
kindred, making observations on them, laughing at their grotesque
gestures, motions, and contortions; then I descend to their level,
associate once more with my neighbour, assure him that we are all alike
ridiculous, and try to make him laugh at himself no less than at me by
the proofs I give him of my proposition.

I do not need to study astronomy in order to discover whether there are
planets which control the course of human thought. The natural seeds of
levity, inconsistency, ennui, thirst for new sensations, with which our
brains are crowded, when they begin to germinate, suffice to change the
thoughts of mortals, and occasion fits of fashion, which not all the
cables of all the dockyards in the world can check before their course
is run. When one fashion is exhausted, the seeds I have described above
set others in motion; and without interrogating the stars--unless indeed
it be the vogue to do so--any patient student of past history may easily
arrive at the conclusion that an unbroken chain of such manias and fits
of fashion, due to the same natural causes, have always swayed, and will
always sway, the stupidity of man; and man in his stupidity is always
blind, always possessed of the assurance that his glance is eagle-eyed.

What our forefathers saw, we see, and our posterity is doomed to see--a
constant ebb and flow of opinions, determined in some part by a few bold
thinkers, who publish to the world discoveries now useful and now
useless, now frivolous and now pernicious. Let not, however, these
thinkers flatter themselves that when they have contrived to set a
fashion going, their most clamorous supporters will take and stick to it
more firmly than they do to the vogue created by the opening of some new
magnificent caffe or by Blondi's magazine of novelties, that very
phoenix of fashion-makers in things our butterflies of human frailty
think the most important.

As regards literature, in the middle of this century, and under the
rising sun of Signor Bettinelli, we were condemned to behold a decided
change for the worse. All that had been done to restore purity and
simplicity, after the decadence of seventeenth-century taste, was swept
away by a new and monstrous fit of fashion. The Granelleschi cried out
in vain for sound principles and cultivated taste; contended in vain
that, Italy being a nation which could boast a mother-language, with its
literary usage, its vulgar usage, and its several dialects, reason bade
us hold fast by the Della Cruscan vocabulary, and seek to enrich that,
instead of disputing its authority. We cried to the winds, and were
obliged to look on while the world was deluged with fanatical, obscure,
bombastic lucubrations--laboured sophisms, rounded periods with nothing
in them, the flimsy dreams of sick folk, sentiments inverted and
distorted--and the whole of this farrago indited in a language mixed of
all the vernacular dialects, with interlarded bits of the Greek tongue,
but above all with so many French words and phrases that our own Italian
dictionaries and grammars seemed to have become superfluous.




XXXVIII.

_Sequel of my literary quarrels.--Goldoni and Chiari.--My resolve to
amuse my fellow-citizens with fantastic dramatic pieces on the stage._


This new fashion of unlicensed freedom and of sheer enthusiasm made
rapid strides, because it was convenient and comfortable. Intellects,
misled and muddled, lost the sense of what is good and bad in writing.
They applauded the worst and the best without distinction. Little by
little, commonplace and transparent stupidities on the one
hand--stupidities sonorous and oracular upon the other, were adopted in
the practice of literature. Pure, cultivated, judicious, and natural
style took on the aspect of debilitated languor and despicable
affectation.

The contagion spread so rapidly and so widely, that even men like
Doctor Carlo Goldoni and the Abbe Pietro Chiari were universally hailed
and eulogized as first-rate Italian authors. Their original and
incomparable achievements were lauded to the skies. To them we owed a
fit of fashion, which lasted some few lustres, and which helped to
overthrow the principles of sound and chaste expression.

These rivals, both of them dramatic poets, and each the critic of the
other, were strong enough to heat the brains of our Venetian folk to
boiling-point, so that the public formed two stormy parties, which came
well-nigh to fisticuffs over the sublimities of their respective idols.

A whirlwind of comedies, tragi-comedies, and tragedies, composts of
imperfections, occupied the public stage; the one genius of inculture
vying with the other in the quantity he could produce. A diarrhoea of
dramatic works, romances, critical epistles, poems, cantatas, and
apologies by both the Vandals poured from the press and deluged Venice.
All the youth were stunned, distracted, and diverted from good sense by
din and tumult. Only the Granelleschi kept themselves untainted by this
Goldonio-Chiaristic epidemic.

We did not shun the theatres. We were not so unjust as to refuse his
share of merit as a playwright to Goldoni. We did not confound him with
Chiari, to whom we conceded nothing, or but little. Yet we were unable
to glance with other eyes than those of pitying derision upon the
tables of fine ladies, the writing-desks of gentlemen, the stalls of
booksellers and artisans, the hands and arms of passers in the street,
the rooms of public and private schools, colleges, even convents--all of
which were loaded with Goldoni's comedies, Chiari's comedies and
romances, the thousand trivialities and absurdities of both
quill-drivers--while everything the scribblers sent to press was valued
as a mirror of reform in literature, a model of right thinking and good
writing.

I hope that no one will be scandalised if I report a saying which I
heard with my own ears. There was a certain Abbe Salerni, Venetian-born,
a preacher of the gospel. He was in the habit of thundering forth
Lenten-sermons from the pulpits, and had a multitude of eager listeners.
This man announced one day, with the air of frank and sturdy
self-conceit, that he had arrived at composing his oratorical
masterpieces upon sacred themes by the unremitting study of Goldoni's
comedies.

I ought to render a candid account here of the impression made upon me
by those two deluges of ink, Goldoni and Chiari. To begin with Goldoni.
I recognised in him an abundance of comic motives, truth, and
naturalness. Yet I detected a poverty and meanness of intrigue; nature
copied from the fact, not imitated; virtues and vices ill-adjusted, vice
too frequently triumphant; plebeian phrases of low double meaning,
particularly in his Venetian plays; surcharged characters; scraps and
tags of erudition, stolen Heaven knows where, and clumsily brought in to
impose upon the crowd of ignoramusses. Finally, as a writer of
Italian--except in the Venetian dialect, of which he showed himself a
master--he seemed to me not unworthy to be placed among the dullest,
basest, and least correct authors who have used our idiom.

In spite of all the praises showered upon Goldoni, paid for or gratis,
by journalists, preface-writers, romancers, apologists, Voltaires, I do
not think that, with the single exception of his _Bourru Bienfaisant_,
which he wrote at Paris, which suited the French theatre, but which had
no success in its Italian translation here, he ever produced a perfect
dramatic piece. At the same time I must add that he never produced one
without some excellent comic trait. In my eyes he had always the
appearance of a man who was born with the innate sense of how sterling
comedies should be composed, but who, by defect of education, by want of
discernment, by the necessity of satisfying the public and supplying new
wares to the poor Italian comedians through whom he gained his
livelihood, and by the hurry in which he produced so many pieces every
year to keep himself afloat, was never able to fabricate a single play
which does not swarm with faults.

In the course of our playful and airy polemics--polemics which had more
the form of witty squibs than formal criticisms--polemics which we
Granelleschi never deigned to aim directly, in due form of siege,
against the outpoured torrents of Goldoni and Chiari, but which we meant
to act as sinapisms on the minds of sluggish youths, besotted by that
trash and froth of ignorance--I once defied the whole world to point out
a single play of Goldoni's which could be styled perfect. I confined
myself to one, because I did not care to be drowned in an ocean; and I
felt confident that I could fulfil my part of the challenge by making
even boys and children see how the public had been taken in. No one
stooped to take my glove up, and to name the perfect comedy. The goad
and lash of pleasantry, with which I exposed Goldoni's stupidities, only
elicited the following two verses, which he wrote and printed, and which
exactly illustrate the stupidity I accused him of:--

    "Pur troppo io so che buon scrittor non sono,
    E che ai fonti miglior non ho bevuto."

    ("Too well I know that I am no good writer,
    And that I have not drunk at the best fountains.")

Proceeding next to Abbe Chiari. In him I found a brain inflamed,
disordered, bold to rashness, and pedantic; plots dark as astrological
predictions; leaps and jumps demanding seven-league boots; scenes
isolated, disconnected from the action, foisted in for the display of
philosophical sententious verbiage; some good theatrical surprises, some
descriptions felicitous in their blunt _naivete_; pernicious ethics;
and, as for the writer, I found him one of the most turgid, most
inflated, nay, the most turgid, the most inflated, of this century. I
once saw a sonnet of his, printed and posted on the shops in Venice; it
was composed to celebrate the recovery from illness of a patrician, and
began with this verse:--

    "Sull'incude fatal del nostro pianto."
    ("Upon the fatal anvil of our tears.")

Nothing more need be said. With such monstrosities in metre, he had the
courage to proclaim himself a modern Pindar. Goldoni he looked down upon
like some gull of the lagoons. Yet, such as he was, Chiari succeeded in
mystifying a thousand empty brains, who admired him without
understanding a line he wrote.

It is not to be wondered at if a Goldoni and a Chiari, with a few
disciples and adherents, were able to create a temporary _furore_, when
we consider that this _furore_ flamed up in the precincts of the
theatres. Here all the population was divided into hostile camps, and
each party was so blind and bewitched as not to recognise the infinite
superiority of Goldoni as a comic playwright over his rival.

What is the force of righteous indignation when a vogue of this sort has
been launched on its career? That of Goldoni and Chiari was bound to run
its natural course, and when it died away, the other, which I have
described in the foregoing chapter, the vogue of immoderate, unnatural,
incorrect enthusiasts, so-styled sublime philosophers, came in, who
discovered new worlds in literature, and who are fawning now upon the
young men of our days, threatening new vocabularies, nay, new alphabets,
treating antiquity as a short-sighted idiot, and involving humanity in
an undistinguishable chaos of literary follies.

With regard to the mania created by Goldoni and Chiari, as may easily be
imagined, I looked upon it as a fungus growth upon opinion, worthy at
the best of laughter. I deemed that, at any rate, I had the right to be
the master of my own thoughts; and a trifle in verse which I wrote for
my amusement, without the intention of sending it to press, was the
accidental cause of obliging me to maintain my views against these poets
by a series of good-natured _jeux d'esprit_. My real friends know that I
harboured no envy, no sentiment of rivalry against them and their swamps
of volumes in octavo. Any one who has the justice to remember that I was
a mere amateur in literature, giving away gratis whatever issued from my
pen, will agree with my friends, and acknowledge that I was prompted by
a disinterested zeal in the cause of pure and unaffected writing. May
Heaven pardon those, and there are many of them, who have held me up for
detestation as a malignant satirist, seeking to found my own fame and
fortune upon the ruin of others! The players and publishers would be
able to disabuse them of this notion. But I do not choose to beg for
testimonials to my generosity; and perhaps I have not told the whole
truth about it in the chapter already written upon my own character.[22]

It was in the year 1757 then that I composed the little book in verse
which I have mentioned, closely following the style of good old Tuscan
masters, and giving it the title of _La Tartana degl'influssi per
l'anno bisestile 1757_.[23] This little work contained a gay critique in
abstract on the uses and abuses of the times. It was composed upon
certain verses of that obscure Florentine poet Burchiello, which I
selected as prophetic texts for my own disquisitions. It took the humour
of our literary club, and I dedicated it to a patrician of Venice,
Daniele Farsetti, to whom I also gave the autograph, without retaining
any copy for my own use. This Cavaliere, a man of excellent culture, and
a Mecaenas of the Granelleschi, wishing to give me an agreeable surprise,
and thinking perhaps that he would meet with difficulty in getting the
poem printed at Venice, sent it to Paris to be put in type, and
distributed the few copies which were struck off among his friends in
Venice.

This trifling volume might have gone the round of many hands, affording
innocent amusement by its broad and humorous survey over characters and
customs, if a few drops of somewhat pungent ink, employed in lashing the
bad writers of those days, had not played the part of venomous and
sacrilegious asps. Goldoni, besides being a regular deluge of dramatic
works, had in him I know not what diuretic medicine for composing little
things in verse, songs, rhyming diatribes, and other such-like poems of
a very muddy order. This gift he now exercised, while putting together a
collection of panegyrics on the patrician Veniero's retirement from the
rectorship of Bergamo, to vent one of his commonplace _terza-rima_
rigmaroles against my _Tartana degli influssi_. He abused the book as a
stale piece of mustiness, an inept and insufferable scarecrow; treating
its author as an angry man who deserved compassion, because (he chose to
say) I had wooed fortune in vain. Many other polite expressions of the
same stamp adorned these triplets.

Meanwhile, the famous Signor Lami, who at that time wrote the literary
paper of Florence, thought my _Tartana_ worthy of notice in his journal,
and extracted some of its stanzas on the decadence and corruption of the
language. Padre Calogera, too, who was then editing the _Giornale de'
Letterati d'Italia_, composed and published praises on it, which were
certainly above its merits. I flatter myself that my readers will not
think I record these facts out of vanity. I was not personally
acquainted with either Lami or Calogera. It is not my habit to
correspond with celebrated men of letters in order to manufacture
testimonials out of their civil and flattering replies. I do not
condescend to wheedle journalists and reviewers into imposing on the
credulity of the public by calling bad things good and good things bad
in my behoof. I have always been so far sensible as to check
self-esteem, and to appreciate my literary toys at their due
worthlessness. Writers who by tricks of this kind, extortions,
canvassings, and subterfuges, seek to gratify their thirst for fame, and
to found a reputation upon bought or begged for attestations, are the
objects of my scorn and loathing. For Lami and Calogera I cherished
sentiments of gratitude. I seemed to find in them a spirit kindred to my
own, and a conviction that I had uttered what was useful in the cause of
culture.

As a matter of fact, although the _Tartana_ was written in strict
literary Tuscan, although its style was modelled upon that of antiquated
Tuscan authors, especially of Luigi Pulci, and was therefore "caviare to
the general," the book obtained a rapid and wide success. The partisans
of Goldoni and Chiari took it for a gross malignant satire.

Possibly the rarity of copies, and the fact that it came from Paris,
helped to float the little poem. Anyhow, it created such a sensation,
raised so much controversy, and brought so many young students into
relations with myself and membership among the Granelleschi, that I
almost dared to hope for a new turn of the tide in literature.

It was this hope which made me follow up the missile I had cast into the
wasp's nest of bad authorship by a pleasant retort against Goldoni's
strictures on my _Tartana_. Goldoni was a good fellow at bottom, but
splenetic, and a miserable writer. Having begun life as a pleader at the
bar of Venice, he never succeeded in throwing off a certain air of
professional coarseness and a tincture of forensic rhetoric. I seized
upon this point of weakness, and indited an epistle, which he was
supposed to have written me, larded with all the jargon of the
law-courts. The object of the letter was to introduce his terzets to my
notice. I gave it the following title: _Scrittura contestativa al taglio
della Tartana degli Influssi stampata a Parigi l'anno 1757_. After this
I set myself to examine his _terza-rima_ poem, and had no difficulty in
exposing a long list of stupidities, improprieties, puerilities, and
injustices. Without altering the low and trivial sentiments expressed in
it, I rewrote the whole in a style of greater elegance and elevation, so
as to prove that even the most plebeian thoughts may acquire harmony and
decent grace by choiceness of diction. Finally, I dissuaded him from
sending his unhappy pamphlet to the press, and concluded by addressing
some octave stanzas to the public, in which I begged them to set him
free in future from his self-imposed obligation of composing in verse.

I did not stop here. My _Tartana_ contained some satirical sallies
against the comedies in vogue upon our stage; and Goldoni had
appropriated these to himself. In his invective he inserted a couple of
forensic lines against me, which conveyed a kind of challenge. Here they
are:--

    "Chi non prova l'assunto e l'argomento,
    Fa come il cane che abbaja alla luna."

    ("He who proves not both theme and argument,
    Acts like the dog who barks against the moon.")

This excited me to write another little book, in which I proved the
proposition and the argument, and at the same time afforded my readers
food for mirth.

I feigned that the Granelleschi were assembled one day during Carnival,
to dine at the tavern of the Pellegrino, which looks out upon the Piazza
di San Marco. My comrades gathered round the windows to observe the
passing masqueraders, when a monstrous creature, wearing a mask of four
strongly-marked and different faces, entered the inn. They entreated it
to come up into our room, in order that they might examine it at
leisure. This mask of the the four faces and four mouths represented the
Comic Theatre of Goldoni, personified by me in the way I shall explain.
As soon as it caught sight of me, the author of _Tartana_, it turned to
fly off in a rage, but was forced to stay and sustain an argument with
me upon the theme of its dramatic productions.

In the dialogue which ensued, I maintained and proved that Goldoni had
striven to gain popularity rather by changing the aspect of his wares
than by any real merit which they possessed. After scribbling plots in
outline for the old-fashioned comedy of improvisation, which he
afterwards attacked and repudiated, he had begun by putting into written
dialogue certain motives neglected by that kind of drama. Then seeing
that this first manner began to pall, he dropped his so-called Reform of
the Stage, and assailed the public with his _Pamelas_ and other
romances. When this novelty in its turn ceased to draw, he bethought
himself of those Venetian farces, which were indeed the best and
longest-lived of his dramatic hashes. In time they suffered the fate of
their predecessors, because such vulgar scenes from life could not fail
to be monotonous. Accordingly, he tried another novelty, tickling the
ears of his audience with rhymed Martellian verses and semi-tragic
pieces, stuffed out with absurdities, improprieties, and the
licentiousness of Oriental manners. These _Spose Persiane_, brutal
_Ircane_, dirty _Eunuchi_, and unspeakable _Curcume_, by the mere fact
of their bad morality, monstrosity, and improbability, raised Goldoni's
fame among a crowd of fools and fanatics, who learned his long-winded
Martellian lines by heart, and went about the alleys of the town
reciting them aloud, to the annoyance of people who knew what good
poetry really is.

I maintained and proved that he had rashly essayed tragedy of the
sublime style, but had prudently fallen back on such plebeian
representations as the _Pettegolezzi delle Donne_, the _Femmine gelose
della Signora Lucrezia_, the _Putta Onorata_, the _Bona Muger_, the
_Rusteghi_, the _Todero Brontolone_. The arguments of comedies like
these were well adapted to his talent. He displayed in them a really
extraordinary ability for interweaving dialogues in the Venetian
dialect, taken down by him with pencil and notebook in the houses of the
common people, taverns, gaming hells, _traghetti_, coffee-houses, places
of ill-fame, and the most obscure alleys of our city. Audiences were
delighted by the realism of these plays, a realism which had never
before been so brilliantly illustrated, illuminated, and adorned, as it
now was by the ability of actors who faithfully responded to the spirit
of this new and popular type of farce.

I maintained and proved that he had frequently charged the noble persons
of his plays with fraud, absurdity, and baseness, reserving serious and
heroic virtues for personages of the lower class, in order to curry
favour with the multitude, who are always too disposed to envy and
malign the great. I also showed that his _Putta Onorata_ was not honest,
and that he had incited to vice while praising virtue with the dullness
of a tiresome sermon. With regard to this point, the four-mouthed Comic
Theatre kept protesting that it wished to drive the time-honoured masks
of improvised comedy off the stage, accusing them of imposture,
immodesty, and bad example for the public. I, on the other hand, clearly
proved that Goldoni's plays were a hundred times more lascivious, more
indecent, and more injurious to morals. My arguments were rendered
irrefutable by a whole bundle of obscene expressions, dirty
double-entendres, suggestive and equivocal situations, and other
nastinesses, which I had collected and textually copied from his works.
The monstrous mask defended itself but poorly, and at last fell to
abusing me personally with all its four mouths at once. This did not
serve it; and when I had argued it down and exposed it to the contempt
of the Granelleschi, it lifted up its clothes in front, and exhibited a
fifth mouth, which it carried in the middle of its stomach. This fifth
allegorical mouth raised up its voice and wept, declaring itself beaten
and begging for mercy. I admit that my satire here was somewhat harsh
and broad; but it had been provoked by an expression of Goldoni's, who
twitted me with being _a man out of temper with fortune_.

As a preface to these two little works, I composed an epistle in blank
verse, in which I dedicated them to a certain well-known
poverty-stricken citizen of Venice, called Pietro Carati. The man used
to go about the streets, wrapt in a ragged mantle, with a rusty
periwig, and black stockings, mended in a thousand places with green,
grey, or white silk (the surest signs of beggary), modestly demanding
from his acquaintances some trifle to support his dignity as cittadino.

In this epistle I repeated that I was not out of temper with fortune,
that I sought no favours from that goddess by my writings, and that my
only object was to carry on the war against bad authors, and to uphold
the rules and purity of literature. These two little pamphlets became
the property of the public before I had time and opportunity to print
them. The stir they made while yet in manuscript occasioned a series of
events which I will now relate.[24]

The noble gentleman, Giuseppe Farsetti, who was a member of our Academy,
came to me one day, and told me that another patrician, Count Ludovico
Widiman, and he would take it very kindly if I consented to withdraw my
little works from publication. I was somewhat surprised, because I knew
that the Cavaliere Farsetti was a lover of good literature. Count
Widiman, on the other hand, had declared himself a partisan of Goldoni.
Nevertheless, I readily assented to their request, and promised to bury
my two pamphlets in oblivion. I added, at the same time, that I felt
sure that Goldoni, when he was aware of this act of generosity on my
part, would begin hostilities against me, trusting to his numerous and
enthusiastic following.

I was not mistaken when I made this prophecy. It soon became evident
that Goldoni intended to carry on the war against us lovers of pure
writing in all the _Raccolte_ which appeared from time to time in
Venice. He also introduced affected and unpleasant types of character
upon the stage under Florentine names, and otherwise jeered at us in the
coarse little poems which he styled his _Tavole Rotonde_. Confiding in
his popularity and the influence of those fine gentlemen whom he called
his "beloved patrons," he hoped to revenge himself on me and to suppress
my _Tartana_.

To break my promise given to the two Cavalieri, and to publish the
satirical pieces I have described above, was out of the question. So I
prepared myself for a guerilla warfare, something after Goldoni's own
kind, but more witty and amusing. I judged it better to fight the
quarrel out with short and cutting pieces, which should throw ridicule
upon my adversary and amuse the public, than to begin a critical
controversy in due form. Squibs and satires were now exchanged daily
between Polisseno Fegejo (such was Goldoni's high-sounding title in the
Arcadi of Rome) and my humble self, the Solitario in our modest Academy
of the Granelleschi.

To meet Goldoni's lumbering diatribes in verse, I brought out a little
burlesque poem, which I called _Sudori d'Imeneo_. It was printed on the
occasion of a wedding, and created a revolution among the wits which
exceeded my most sanguine expectations. At this distance of time I find
it impossible to render a precise account of the innumerable
compositions which I produced in this controversy. They were read at the
time with avidity, because of their novelty and audacity. I never cared
to keep a register of my published or unpublished writings in prose and
verse. If I were asked where these trifles could be found, I should
reply: "Certainly not in my hands." Some of my friends, however--among
them the Venetian gentleman, Raffaele Todeschini, and Sebastiano Muletti
of Bergamo--thought it worth while to form complete collections of such
pieces from my pen.

It must not be imagined that Abbe Chiari escaped without blows in this
battle of the books. It so happened that an unknown writer subjected one
of his prologues to a scathing satire in an essay called _Five Doubts_.
The piece was mistakenly attributed to me; and Chiari answered it by six
cowardly, filthy, satirical sonnets, which he circulated in manuscript,
against myself and the Granelleschi. Upon this there arose a whole
jungle of pens in our defence. The five doubts were multiplied by four,
by six; and the Abbe was argued and twitted out of his wits. In these
straits, he condescended to extend the kiss of peace to his old foe
Goldoni, and Goldoni abased himself to the point of accepting the
salute. Drowning their former rivalries and differences, they now
entered into an offensive and defensive alliance against the Academy and
me.

Meanwhile our party grew steadily in numbers. The head-quarters of the
Granelleschi as a belligerent body were at this time established in the
shop of the bookseller Paolo Colombani. Every month we issued here in
parts a series of critical and satirical papers, which drew crowds of
purchasers round Colombani's counter. The papers appeared under the
title of _Atti Granelleschi_, and were prefaced with an introduction in
octave stanzas from my pen. The noise they created all about the town
was quite remarkable, and young men eagerly enrolled themselves under
our standard of the Owl. Chiari and Goldoni, on their side, were not
idle; but the alliance they had struck took off considerably from their
vogue. This depended in no small measure on their former rivalry. The
dropping fire which had been exchanged between their partisans kept
their names and fames before the public. Now that they were fighting
under one flag against us, the interest in their personalities declined.

Without pursuing the details of this literary war, which raged between
the years 1757 and 1761, I will only touch upon those circumstances
which led me to try my fortune on the stage as a dramatic writer. Both
Goldoni and Chiari professed themselves the champions of theatrical
reform; and part of their programme was to cut the throat of the
innocent _Commedia dell'Arte_, which had been so well supported in
Venice by four principal and deservedly popular masks: Sacchi, Fiorelli,
Zannoni, and Derbes. It seemed to me that I could not castigate the
arrogance of these self-styled Menanders better than by taking our old
friends Truffaldino, Tartaglia, Brighella, Pantalone, and Smeraldina
under my protection. Accordingly, I opened fire with a dithyrambic poem,
praising the extempore comedians in question, and comparing their gay
farces favourably with the dull and heavy pieces of the reformers.[25]
Chiari and Goldoni replied to my attacks and those of my associates by
challenging us to produce a comedy. Goldoni, in particular, called me a
verbose word-monger, and kept asserting that the enormous crowds which
flocked together to enjoy his plays constituted a convincing proof of
their essential merit. It is one thing, he said, to write subtle verbal
criticisms, another thing to compose dramas which shall fill the public
theatres with enthusiastic audiences. Spurred by this continual appeal
to popularity and vogue, I uttered the deliberate opinion that crowded
theatres proved nothing with regard to the goodness or the badness of
the plays which people came to see; and I further staked my reputation
on drawing more folk together than he could do with all his scenic
tricks, by simply putting the old wives' fairy-story of the _Love of the
Three Oranges_ upon the boards.

Shouts of incredulous and mocking laughter, not unnaturally, greeted
this Quixotic challenge. They stung my sense of honour, and made me gird
up my loins for the perilous adventure. When I had composed the scheme
of my strange drama, and had read it to the Granelleschi, I could see,
by the laughter it excited, that there was stuff and bottom in the
business. Yet my friends dissuaded me from producing such a piece of
child's-play before the public; it would certainly be hissed, they said,
and compromise the dignity of our Academy.

I replied that the whole public had to be attacked in front upon the
theatre, in order to create a sensation, and to divert attention from
our adversaries. I meant to give, and not to sell this play, which I
hoped would vindicate the honour and revenge the insults of our Academy.
Finally, I humbly submitted that men of culture and learning were not
always profoundly acquainted with human nature and the foibles of their
neighbours.

Well, I made a present of _L'Amore delle Tre Melarancie_ to Sacchi's
company of comic players, and the extravaganza was produced in the
theatre of San Samuele at Venice during the Carnival of 1761. Its
novelty and unexpectedness,--the surprise created by a fairy-tale
adapted to the drama, seasoned with trenchant parodies of both Chiari's
and Goldoni's plays, and not withal devoid of moral allegory--created
such a sudden and noisy revolution of taste that these poets saw in it
the sentence of their doom.

Who could have imagined that this twinkling spark of a child's fable on
the stage should have outshone the admired and universally applauded
illumination of two famous talents, condemning them to obscurity, while
my own dramatised fairy-tales throve and enthralled the public for a
period of many years? So wags the world!




XXXIX.

_My plan of campaign for assailing Goldoni and Chiari through the
militia of actors I had chosen.--The four Fiabe: Il Corvo, Il Re Cervo,
La Turandotte, I Pitocchi Fortunati._


In the long course of my observations upon human nature and the
different sorts of men, I had not as yet enjoyed an opportunity of
studying the race of actors. I was curious to do so, and the time had
come.

With the view of attacking my two poet adversaries in the theatre, I
made choice of the comic troupe of Sacchi, the famous Truffaldino.[26]
It was composed for the most part of close relatives, and bore the
reputation of being better behaved and more honest than any others.
Professionally, they sustained our old national comedy of improvisation
with the greatest spirit. This type of drama, as I have said above,
Goldoni and Chiari, under the mask of zeal for culture, but really with
an eager eye to gain, had set themselves to ruin and abolish.

Antonio Sacchi, Agostino Fiorelli, Atanagio Zannoni, and Cesare Derbes,
all of them excellent players in their several lines, represented the
four masks, Truffaldino, Tartaglia, Brighella, and Pantalone. Each of
these men could boast of perfect practice in their art, readiness of
wit, grace, fertility of ideas, variety of sallies, bye-play, drollery,
naturalness, and some philosophy. The soubrette of the company, Andriana
Sacchi-Zannoni, possessed the same qualities. Its other members, at the
time when I took up their cause, were old men and women, persons of good
parts but unattractive physique, lifeless sticks, and inexperienced
children. Some time earlier, the troupe had been extremely well-to-do
and popular in Italy. But the two playwrights in question, after having
lived in partnership with them, had turned round and taken the bread out
of their mouths. Sacchi, in these circumstances, withdrew his company to
the Court of Portugal, where they prospered, until a far more formidable
enemy than a brace of poets assailed them. The terrible earthquake of
Lisbon put a stop to all amusements in that capital; and our poor
players, having lost their occupation, returned to Venice after an
absence of some four years, and encamped in the theatre of San Samuele.

Upon their arrival, they met with a temporary success. Many amateurs of
the old drama, who were bored to death with Martellian verses and such
plays as the _Filosofi Inglesi_, _Pamelas_, _Pastorelle Fedeli_,
_Plautuses_, _Molieres_, _Terences_, and _Torquato Tassos_, then in
vogue, hailed them with enthusiasm. During the first year the four masks
and the soubrette, with some other actors of merit in the extempore
style, took the wind out of Goldoni's and Chiari's sails. Little by
little, however, the novelties poured forth by these two fertile
writers, who kept on treating the clever fellows as contemptible
mountebanks and insipid buffoons, prevailed, and reduced them to almost
total neglect.

It seemed to me that I should be able to indulge my humour for laughter
if I made myself the colonel of this regiment. I also hoped to score a
victory for the insulted Granelleschi by drawing crowds to Sacchi's
theatre with my dramatic allegories based on nursery-tales. The fable of
_L'Amore delle Tre Melarancie_ made a good beginning. My adversaries
were driven mad by the revolt it caused among playgoers, by its parodies
and hidden meanings, which the newspapers industriously explained,
describing many things which I had never put there. They attempted to
hoot it down by clumsy abuse, affecting at the same time disgust and
contempt for its literary triviality. Forgetting that it had been
appreciated and enjoyed by people of good birth and culture, they called
it a mere buffoonery to catch the vulgar. Its popularity they attributed
to the co-operation of the four talented masks, whom they had sought to
extirpate, and to the effect of the transformation scenes which it
contained, ignoring the real spirit and intention of this comic sketch
in a new style.

Laughing at their empty malice, I publicly maintained that art in the
construction of a piece, well-managed conduct of its action, propriety
of rhetoric and harmony of diction, were sufficient to invest a puerile
fantastic motive, if taken seriously, with the illusion of reality, and
to arrest the attention of the whole human race--excepting perhaps some
thirty confirmed enemies, who would be sure, when my contention had been
proved before their eyes and ears, to accuse a hundred thousand men of
ignorance, and to renounce their sex rather than admit the truth.

This proposition was met with new gibes; and I found myself committed to
make good my bold assertion. The fable of _Il Corvo_, extracted from a
Neapolitan story-book, _Cunto delle cunte, trattenemiento pe le
piccierelle_, and treated by me in the tone of lofty tragedy, wrought
the miracle. I must add that I assigned some humorous passages to the
four masks, whom I wished to keep upon the stage for the benefit of
hypochondriacs, and in contempt of misunderstood and falsely applied
rules from Aristotle.

The success of _Il Corvo_ was complete. The public wept and laughed at
my bidding. Multitudes flocked to hear this old wives' tale, as though
it had been solemn history. The play had a long run; and the two poets
were seriously damaged in their interests, while the newspapers
applauded and extolled the allegory as a splendid example of fraternal
affection.

I wished to strike while the iron was hot. Accordingly, my third fable,
the _Re Cervo_, appeared with similar results of popularity and
sympathetic criticism. A thousand beauties were discovered, which I, who
wrote it, had not seen. Folk regarded its allegory as a mirror for those
monarchs who allow themselves to be blinded by their confidence in
Ministers, and are in consequence transformed into the semblance of
monsters. Meanwhile, my opponents persisted in ascribing the great
success of these three pieces to stage decorations and the marvellous
effect of magic metamorphoses, neglecting the writer's art and science,
the charm of his verse, and his adroit employment of rhetoric, morality,
and allegory. This impelled me to produce two more fables, _Turandotte_
and _I Pitocchi Fortunati_, in which magic marvels were conspicuous by
their absence, while the literary art and science remained the same. A
like success clinched my argument, without, however, disarming my
antagonists.

I had formed the habit of conversing with my family of players in our
hours of leisure; and very racy did I find the recreation of their
society. In a short space of time I learned to understand and see into
the characters and talents of my soldiers, with insight so perfect that
all the parts I wrote for them and fitted, so to speak, upon their
mental frames, were represented on the stage as though they issued
naturally from their hearts and tempers. This added hugely to the
attraction of the spectacle. The gift of writing for particular actors,
which does not seem to be possessed or put in use by every dramatist, is
almost indispensable while dealing with the comic troupes of Italy. The
moderate payments which are customary in our theatres prevent these
people from engaging so large a number of actors and actresses as to be
able to select the proper representatives of all the varied characters
in nature. To the accident of my possessing this gift, and the ability
with which I exercised it, must be ascribed a large part of my success.
Goldoni alone devoted himself with patience to the study of the players
who put his premeditated pieces on the boards;[27] but I defy Goldoni
and all the writers for our stage to compose, as I did, parts differing
in character, containing jokes, witticisms, drolleries, moral satire,
and discourses in soliloquy or dialogue, adapted to the native genius of
my Truffaldino, Tartaglia, Brighella, Pantaloni, and Servette, without
lapsing into languor and frigidity, and with the same result of
reiterated applause.

Other playwrights, who attempted to put written words into the mouth of
extempore actors, only made them unnatural; and obtained, as the reward
of their endeavours, the abuse and hisses of the public at the third
representation of their insipid pieces. It is possibly on this account
that they revenged themselves by assuming comic airs of grave and
serious criticism, treating our miracles of native fun and humour as
contemptible buffoons, all Italy as drunken and besotted, myself as the
bolsterer up of theatrical ineptitudes, and my prolusions in a new
dramatic style as crumbling relics of the old _Commedia dell'Arte_. So
far as the last accusation goes, everybody will allow that the Masks
which I supported as a _tour de force_ of art and for the recreation of
the public who rejoiced in them, play the least part in my scenic
compositions; my works, in fact, depend for their existence and survival
on the sound morality and manly passion, which formed their real
substratum, and which found expression on the lips of serious
actors.[28]

For the rest, the players whom I had taken under my wing looked up to me
as their tutelary genius. Whenever I appeared, they broke into
exclamations of delight, and let the whole world know that I was the
propitious planet of their resurrection. They professed themselves
indebted to me for benefits which could not be repaid, except by an
eternal gratitude.




XL.

_The actors and actresses of Italy in general, considered with regard to
their profession, their characters, and their manners; written from the
point of view of a philosophical observer._


Among all sorts and conditions of human beings who offer themselves to a
philosophical observer, none are so difficult to know in their real
nature as actors and actresses.

Educated in deception from the cradle, they learn the art of masking
falsehood with an air of candour so completely, that it requires great
gifts of penetration to arrive at their true heart and character.
Journeyings from place to place, affairs of business, accidents of all
sorts, experience of common life, examples furnished by their commerce
with the world, the constant exercise of wit and intellect in rivalry,
wake their brains up, and subtilise their comedians' nature.

In another chapter I intend to paint a special picture of Sacchi's
company, with whom I fraternised, and whom I helped for about a quarter
of a century. At present I shall confine my remarks to Italian players
in general, who are, I think, in no essential points of moral quality
different from those of other nations.

It may be laid down as an axiom, to be accepted with closed eyes, that
the chief idol of all actors is their venal interest. Expressions of
politeness, acknowledgments of obligation, terms of praise, humanity,
sympathy, courteous welcome, and so forth, have no value among actors,
except as parts of a fixed system of deception which they consider
necessary in the worship of this idol. If that idol of pecuniary
interest is attacked (with justice it may be and the best reasons), you
will not find in them a shadow of these fine sentiments. The merest
scent of coming profit makes them disregard and blindly sacrifice the
persons who have done them good; the reputation of the whole world is as
nothing to them then; they take no thought of the damage they may have
to suffer in the future, blinded by greediness, lulled into security for
the time being, and hoping to avoid impending disasters by address and
ingenuity. The present moment is all that actors think of.

Hot and choleric temperaments reveal their true selves more readily
among this class of people. The cool-headed are more difficult to
fathom. Their system of cozenage is not only applied to persons outside
the profession, from whom they expect material gains; it is always at
work to take in and delude the members of the guild. Of course they find
it less easy to checkmate the initiated in their own devices. But if
they have attained to the position of being necessary to their comrades
in the trade, there is no sort of impropriety, pretence, injustice,
swindling, tyranny, which they do not deem it lawful to employ.

These arts, which the progress of our century has extended to many kinds
of persons who are not of the profession, have a certain marked
character among the tribe of actors. Other people, when detected, show
some sense of shame and self-abasement. The unmasked comedian, after all
his turns and twists have been employed in vain, is so unprejudiced and
candid that he laughs good-humouredly in the face of his detective, and
seems to exclaim with indescribable effrontery: "You are a great fool
if you flatter yourself that you have made a notable discovery."

Such is my experience. But of course it is possible that among the
innumerable actors, male and female, whom I have known, conversed with,
and studied, some phoenix of the one or the other sex may have escaped
my observation.

In what concerns the practice of their art, all that these people know
is how to read and write; one better, and one worse. Indeed, I have been
acquainted with both actors and actresses who have not even had that
minimum of education, and yet they carried on their business without
flinching. They got their lines read out to them by some friend or some
associate, whenever a new part had to be impressed in outline on their
memory. Keeping their ears open to the prompter, they entered boldly on
the stage, and played a hero or a heroine without a touch of truth. The
presentation of such characters by actors of the sort I have described
abounds in blunders, stops and stays, and harkings back upon the leading
motive, which would put to shame the player in his common walk of life.

Barefaced boldness is the prime quality, the chief stock-in-trade, the
ground-element of education in these artists. Assiduous use of this one
talent makes not a few of them both passable and even able actors.

These are the reasons why a civil war is always raging in our companies
about the first parts in new pieces. The conflict does not start from an
honest desire to acquire or to manifest theatrical ability. The players
are actuated wholly by ambition, by the hope of attracting favourable
notice through the merit of their role, by the wish to keep themselves
continually before the public, performing ill or well as their blind
rashness prompts them.

Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, Italy would be able to make a
good show in comparison with other nations if our theatres were better
supported and remunerated. There are not wanting persons of fine
presence, of talent, sensibility, and animation. What we do want are the
refinements of education, solid protection, and emoluments sufficient to
encourage the actor in his profession.

I have observed that the best artists of both sexes are those who have
some higher culture; but I have also observed that the support of
themselves and their families, and the inevitable expenses of their
wardrobe, render their professional salaries inadequate. They make up
for these deficiencies by spunging upon credulous tradesmen and besotted
lovers; and thus they bring discredit on the whole profession.

I have always laughed at those who depreciate the influences of the
pulpit, and think they can instil sound morality into the people by the
means of scenic shows. When Rousseau maintained that the precept _Do
what I tell you, and not what I do_, is worthless without a good example
from the man who gives it forth, he uttered one of the truest things
that can be said. I leave people to meditate upon the inverted morality
which is being now diffused in our most recent dramas, the dramas of
so-called culture, from the lips of players in the place of preachers.




XLI.

_A description of Sacchi's company in particular.--I continue the tone
of a philosophical observer._


Having recorded the impression made upon me by Italian actors and
actresses in general, I shall now attempt a description of Sacchi's
company, which I had good opportunities of studying through some
twenty-five years.

Though I read with sufficient ease into the hearts and characters of
these my proteges, and could supply them with sentiments, dialogues, and
soliloquies adapted to their inmost natures, I found it difficult to
penetrate the motives of their moral conduct, which were far more
closely fenced about from prying gaze than either their intellectual or
their physical peculiarities.

There is no doubt that at least seven members of this troupe were
excellent artists in the national _Commedia alla sprovveduta_--a species
of comedy which has always afforded innocent recreation to the public
when performed with taste and spirit, but which is utterly insufferable
when badly executed. This much I concede to the persecutors of the
species--little talents, more ridiculous and useless with their
ostentation of gravity than are even bad harlequins.

Sacchi's company enjoyed general respect in so far as their personal
conduct was concerned. On this point they differed widely from the
majority of our actors, who are for the most part very badly looked
upon. This excellent reputation weighed strongly with me, when I sought
their society, and entered into fraternal relations with them. The way
they held together, the harmony which reigned among them, their
domesticity, studious habits, severity in moral matters, their rules
against visits being paid to women, the abhorrence the women themselves
displayed for those who took presents from seducers, the regularity with
which they divided their hours between household duties, religious
exercises, and charitable attentions to the indigent among their
members, gratified my taste. I may incidentally mention that if any of
the salaried actresses or actors exceeded the prescribed bounds of
decent conduct, they were quickly sent about their business; and such
offenders were replaced by others, whose moral character had been
subjected to stricter inquiry than even their professional ability.

I am sufficiently unprejudiced and free from scruples; I have never
evaded opportunities of studying human nature, which brought me into
passing contact with all sorts of men; yet it is certain that I should
not have entered into familiar relations and daily converse in my hours
of recreation with these people, for upwards of the space of twenty
years, if it had not been for their exceptional good character.

I not only composed for them a long series of theatrical pieces, novel
in kind and congenial to their talents, but I also furnished them with a
new arsenal of stock passages, essential to the _Commedia dell'Arte_,
and which they call its _dote_, or endowment.[29] I could not say how
many prologues and epilogues in verse I wrote, to be recited on the
first and last evenings of the run of some play by the leading lady for
the time being; nor how many songs to be inserted in their farces; nor
how many thousand pages I filled with soliloquies, sallies of despair,
menace, reproach, supplication, paternal reprimand, and such-like
matters appropriate to all kinds of scenes in improvised comedy. The
players call such fragments of studied rhetoric _generici_, or
commonplaces. They are vastly important to comedians who may not be
specially gifted for improvisation; and everythi

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