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Table of Contents

Goldoni leaves Venice 1732—his extravagant habits—becomes a playwright and goes to Milan—burns Amalasunta after its refusal 1733—enters Venetian diplomatic service in Milan—sees battle between Sards and Austrians—intrigue with an adventuress—influence of the charlatan Bonafede Vitali on Goldoni—Casali orders a play—Goldoni meets the Imer troupe in Verona—his play Belisario is accepted and he is engaged as playwright for Grimani’s theatre in Venice 1734—in love with actress “la Passalaqua”—meets and marries Nicoletta Connio of Genoa—attack of smallpox on honeymoon—his comedians are his models as well as his interpreters—from them he learned much—becomes Genoese Consul in Venice 1740—consulship comes to sudden end 1743—Goldoni’s wanderings over Italy—visits Florence—begins practice of law in Pisa—praises Perfetti’s extempore poetry 1744—admitted to Pisan colony of Arcadia—engages to write a play for actor Darbes—meets Medebach troupe.

T was a fateful moment for Goldoni when by one decision he relinquished his career as a lawyer and also left Venice. And in spite of his affectation of indifference in his account of this decisive moment he was conscious of its gravity, yet courageous and hopeful for the future. There is no hint of the bitter disappointment which was to follow. Evidently he would not have left Venice, his mother, and his position at the bar if the prospect in Milan had not been attractive.

Goldoni disguises his real motive because he shares, with the writers of his time, the foolish idea that the poet is disgracing himself and his art when he wishes to make his living out of his work. He will not confess that he conceived the idea of writing a tragedy, and of having it performed in Milan, the moment when it was suggested to him. Zeno,^[20] Metastasio,^[21] and other poets had made money in Vienna, and now even Pariati^[22] and other writers, whom posterity has forgotten, were achieving fame and fortune by producing dramma lirico and dramma musicale. Goldoni felt that he could do at least as well, and he needed the money.

All his mother’s tenderness could not disguise that he was draining her scanty income; all his affection for her could not restrain him from extravagant habits and gambling. He resolved to turn a new leaf. His decision did him credit. Yet in his Memoirs he disguises both the earnestness of his purpose and the reasons for it. To account for his departure he tells a probably fictitious little story of a foolish love entanglement, a breach of promise.

To obtain his mother’s consent he may have given some such reason; and with her, “toutes mes raisons étoient bonnes.”^[23] Signora Goldoni was not only a fond mother, she was a Venetian bourgeoise, hence ready to recognise the right of the man in the family to have his will. After obeying her father-in-law, she submitted to her husband, and now she accepted the rule of her eldest son. Goldoni was ready to answer every objection. He allowed her to pay off some small debts, and he stopped any possible remonstrance by telling her how he had, previously, for her sake, given up his position at Feltre, and by promising her an ample share of the profit he was sure to make.

Goldoni was elated with great expectations and ambitions, which took form and direction during the weary hours when waiting for the clients who did not come. During the pleasant hours spent in the Venetian coffeehouses, round the tables of tresset, where the news of the world and theatrical gossip were current, he could feel the pressure of growing debts and of his mother’s anxiety, all tending to show the empty value of the proud title avvocato. He will not live at his mother’s expense, yet as long as he stays in Venice he must gamble and spend more than he can afford.

While he was in Collegio Ghisleri and during his apprenticeship at the Chancellery, Goldoni fell into habits of extravagance which in Venice it was especially difficult to reform. It was easier to sever all past associations and tear himself away. Afterwards he says and perhaps believes that his dramatic vocation was always imperative, but the fact is he turned to playwriting at the moment when his prospects were darkest and playwriting was yielding glory and gold for others.

Venice was a hive of literary gossip. In the ridotto, the book shops, and the botteghe Goldoni heard much talk about the latest theatrical performances. He was certain that he could accomplish what so many others were doing. He ignored difficulties; his superficial stage technique was to him no obstacle. He writes facile rhymes, he can stage amateur performances and arrange the play to the taste of the audience, he has been behind the scenes, and chatted with actors and made love to a servetta and perhaps a primadonna, he is always welcome; why should he not write plays? Besides, he carries with him the manuscript of a tragedy—or drama—that, if turned into an opera, he is sure to sell to some Milanese theatre manager.

The choice of Milan for a début was ambitious, but not unwise. The city was munificent, an important centre of business, its theatregoers less fastidious than Venetians; furthermore Goldoni was provided with credentials. The Venetian Resident Minister was on his list, and there were others, a superintendent of the theatres, a celebrated ballet dancer, and of course churchmen. Goldoni took all precautions.

So off he went,^[24] but not straight to Milan. There were visits to pay along the road, more letters of introduction to obtain, and more approval of his tragedy, the manuscript being always at hand for a reading, if only a listener could be discovered. With Parmenione Trissino^[25] the stay was long enough to admit of some discouraging criticism, which Goldoni perhaps interpreted as the effect of jealousy, Trissino being better known for his illustrious name than for his own literary productions.

Goldoni did not succeed at first, probably his work was not such as the ruling taste then required. He lacked the practical knowledge, the technique which he afterward acquired. Hence his disappointment at failure was bitter. With much humour and less of his habitual benevolence, Goldoni describes the reading of his tragedy.

Caffariello, the celebrated soprano, stands up and modulates in his silvery voice the title Amalasunta, and pronounces it long and unmusical, whilst another “soprano,” a wizened little monkey, sings out “de sa voix de chat” that the dramatis personæ are too many. Signora Grossatesta, the mistress of the house, Count Prata, the most influential and the only learned person in the room, both try to obtain silence, and the reader begins. He is ill at ease, he feels the hostility of his hearers and loses heart. Somehow he gets to the end and is saluted by a shower of adverse criticisms. Count Prata speaks as a theatre manager and warns Goldoni that each one of the principal rôles must be given an appropriate number of airs, a just proportion of duets, that the secondary rôles must be restricted in their opportunities, the arie di bravura must come close after the pathetic andante, and so on. All the petty devices and contrivances which then fettered the steps of the opera are mentioned.

Goldoni, crushed by the failure of his cherished plan, maddened by the buzzing of such nonsense, rushed in despair to his own room and flung the manuscript into the fire. He had left Venice without thought of return; he could not now fall back on his mother, nor could he remain in Milan without funds. He sat staring into the blaze which his manuscript lighted, the prospect was as gloomy as possible; yet when nothing remained but a little heap of ashes he thought out a plan.

With morning came courage and, a true Venetian, he turned for help to his countryman. Senator Bartolini, the Venetian Resident, appreciated pluck, and knew a good story when told him. He laughed at Goldoni’s mishap, enjoyed his unaffected ways, perceived his sterling qualities, and immediately offered him the place of private secretary, which was little more than an usher, a sort of confidential attendant. But as this provided Goldoni with board and lodging, also with small wages, he was perforce satisfied.

It is difficult to determine from Goldoni’s account the character of his diplomatic service in this Venetian Embassy. The contemporary presence in Milan of two representatives of the Serenissima, with slight difference in their title, each directed to keep the Senate informed of the doings of the other, besides keeping in touch with the Milanese State, explains how Senator Bartolini found it useful to have two private secretaries,^[26] the official one and the non-official, Goldoni.

Goldoni’s incomplete account of events is unsatisfactory. His dates are wrong; his records of the movements of troops, sieges, or other incidents of the war then in progress are inaccurate. Goldoni was not interested in his work, except in so far as it afforded him a living. Even when promoted to a more responsible position, his heart was not in his task. He had no gift for diplomacy and was not interested in the succession of wars that left Venice untouched; like most Italians of his times he was only a spectator in the fight.

He witnessed a battle,^[27] either in 1733 or in 1734, between the Sards and the Austrians near Parma; his curiosity took him to the city walls and he objects to the smoke which clouded the “rare spectacle he would otherwise have enjoyed”! Goldoni’s slight French hardly excuses here the verb jouir. He languidly describes the battlefield, as he visited it on the day after the combat. He is disgusted with the heap of naked bodies, and there are limbs and skulls scattered about; but he complacently records how tons of lime were scattered over this offensive display to prevent infection.

He describes with more warmth his mission “en qualité d’espion honorable,” which seems to mean a sort of attaché, to the camp of the Allies, and was invited to partake in the pleasures of an armistice. These half-hearted occupations were not sufficient to occupy Goldoni’s restlessness. He was sure to get into scrapes, when he searched for congenial diversions. Dissipation in Milan was more dangerous than in Venice, and Goldoni’s footing less secure. Cards were the principal danger.^[28] This was not the sort of play practised in Venetian drawing-rooms, in the intervals of conversation, but real gambling, in very mixed company. Goldoni was incurable, though more than once decoyed and cheated.

He also narrates in his Memoirs^[29] an intrigue with an adventuress, attended by a most disreputable uncle or protector, which cost him trouble and money, and was finally the cause of his release from his diplomatic bondage. His story, unsupported by documentary evidence, reads like an invention to explain his departure from Milan, which many other causes must have prepared. He relates that, Senator Bartolini having ordered him to copy an important secret diplomatic document, he made his copy, locked it in his desk, and went out to supper with his lady-love and a party of gay companions. He remained at the card table, or otherwise, all night, and on returning home in the morning he found that the angry and suspicious Senator had been sending repeatedly to his rooms, asking for the secret document and the copy. Goldoni was reprimanded, lost his temper, was threatened with punishment, and fled for refuge to the archbishop’s palace. Bartolini recognised that his secretary was guilty of nothing worse than dissipation; Goldoni was satisfied, but he insisted on leaving.^[30]

Investigations made by Goldonians fail to identify the secret document, cause of this incident. Probably Goldoni invented this anecdote, as a picturesque conclusion of his diplomatic experience, rather than confess his determination to try once more his fortune as a playwright.

Even in the first months of his stay in Milan, Goldoni met a person that was to exert much influence on his evolution. Bonafede Vitali^[31] was a representative of old times, yet was he also a precursor of the new order; he links up past traditions with modern methods of advertisement. He was a scholar and had obtained degrees and diplomas from Canterbury, Palermo, and Catania universities. An able physician, he had cured Marshal Schomberg and other great men and had conquered a violent epidemic in Parma. A traveller, too, who had visited almost every country of Europe, and spoke almost every European language. Just then, Bonafede Vitali was exerting in Milan, with great profit and honour, the difficult profession of a charlatan. Famous under the name of l’Anonimo, he attracted immense crowds round the raised platform where he stood, attended by several masked assistants, and was ready to answer any question that was put to him on any subject, ready to sell pills and liniments for any disease. Men of learning and reputation did not disdain to probe his cyclopedian knowledge or to enlarge their own. Goldoni asserts that to every paper sent up to him Vitali gave an answer and as often as not disserted at length on the topic started, whether in literature, science, history, or mathematics.

This man, whom Goldoni admired for his learning, was also stage manager and director of an itinerant troupe of comedians. Imitating a time-honoured practice, Bonafede Vitali advertised the sale of his drugs by having the four masks of the “commedia dell’arte” on parade with him on the platform, assisting him in handing down boxes and phials, and catching the soldi thrown into the same kerchiefs. The lazzi and pranks of the masks filled the intervals of his learned speeches and attracted a crowd of spectators and customers. In the evening, the same comedians performed short plays by the light “of white wax candles.” The luxury of white wax added a finishing touch to the prestige of the spectacle.

This was indeed a revival of the oldest forms of comedy, a return to methods that were fundamental; it brought artists into close contact with their audience, which was not merely a reminiscence of the past but an indication for the future.

Did Goldoni realise all that Bonafede Vitali’s system represented? Not entirely, and not clearly, though he certainly learned something. He saw with his own eyes the good effects of an able and illuminated direction inspiring the actors to higher efforts; he realised also that comedy, though different, was not inferior to tragedy, and he may have felt encouraged to pursue a course that Bonafede Vitali did not disdain. Goldoni, being so attracted by his new friend, offered to assist him in securing the theatre for a season. He was rewarded with a front box at the spectacle and also with the favour of free admittance behind the scenes.

Vitali asked him to write a short intermezzo, which was performed with some success in this year 1733. The comedians with whom Goldoni mixed were among the best of the time; Casali played the rôle of amoroso, Rubini was the Pantalone. They encouraged him with several proposals, and Casali asked for a tragi-comedy, and offered to pay for it.^[32]

On leaving Milan, Goldoni, after some wandering, finally alighted in the Arena of Verona,^[33] just when Casali was stepping out from the curtain to deliver a speech to the audience. Was it a providential accident, as the Memoirs relate? Or was it the result of some previous arrangement, this meeting with Casali, and Goldoni’s introduction to the whole troupe, then under the direction of Imer,^[34] and in the pay of His Excellency Grimani?^[35]

His description of the scene should be read in full. Of course he had the manuscript of a tragi-comedy in his pocket, the Belisario Casali had suggested. Of course, he was willing to read it, and his host was eager to hear it. Casali seized the manuscript and claimed it as his property. Imer was almost as eager to make another offer, and Goldoni was even more eager to be engaged.

This Belisario holds a small place in the history of Goldoni’s plays, but in the evolution of his personality this admittance within the circle of professionals, this first engagement as an author are decisive. Goldoni has finally found the profession which satisfies his dearest wishes; he can reconcile his desire of financial independence with his thirst for amusement. He mixes with people he likes, and who like him.

His Excellency Grimani, the owner of the San Samuele theatre, was not an exacting employer. Goldoni says that he was delightfully free from the supercilious hauteur “which lowers the great and humiliates the humble”; he further immortalizes the kindness of this debonaire (Il Prodigo) patrician by taking him as a model for his Momolo sulla Brenta. How gladly Goldoni followed the actors to Venice! How gladly he began work for them! He accepts any job that is offered, even the cobbling of other authors’ plays. He makes a funny little anecdote out of his collaboration with a red-haired abbot, the musician Vivaldi, and their rearrangement of an opera by Pariati and Zeno.

He proudly records that at this moment he was writing tragedy, comedy, and opera. He is in Venice; though he does not live under the same roof, he sees his mother frequently. If there had been some misunderstanding or disappointment when he left Venice for Milan, it was fully explained, and Goldoni conquered once more that place in the family which a real Venetian bourgeois held dearer than public office. Relatives such as the highly honourable Paolo Indric were probably shocked at Goldoni’s sudden exit from Venice, and more offended when they heard of his engagement with the comedians. Signora Goldoni did not want her darling son to remain under a cloud, so she arranged a little dinner party for his home-coming; a gathering of all the wiseacres and prosperous members of their family. Then it was Goldoni’s turn to win back their favour by the amusing tales of his adventures. He confesses that he added to and transformed the stories he had already told to his mother, so that the dear lady, with tears of joy and pride, will ask the hero for explanation; she laughs, she weeps, she exclaims: “You little rogue, this thing you never told me!” More than enough to conquer the diffidence of relatives, who smiled on the prodigal son and his mother.^[36]

Also he enjoys his life with the comedians. Actresses exert on him an attraction which is not altogether sensual. Even his fragmentary account reveals that his artistic sense is so closely inwrought with his affections that he can hardly tell whether he is in love with the woman, or with the interpreter of his creation. Goldoni is no slave of passion, though he enjoys the fluttering of Cupid’s wings. He is fast cooling down into an amiable man who has a kind word for everybody, a pretty compliment for every woman, who winks at petty contrivances, and listens to confidences, but longs for a quiet marriage and a peaceful home.

He was ripe for marriage, his only fear being to fall the prey of one unworthy to be his mother’s companion. He does not conceive marrying as a personal affair, that was not the standard of his time; he thinks of marrying, in order to settle down in happy and respectable obscurity. He is ripe for this crisis because he has fortunately escaped several dangers. The stories he told his mother on first coming home were not so improper that they could not be printed, with a few omissions and corrections. His sentimental apprenticeship was over; he could look back with amusement on passed perils.^[37]

In Feltre, when he was there in the quality of a magistrate with the prospect of advancement and the halo of social glory, Goldoni had loved a young lady of good family. He noticed, however, that the little thing was fragile. He learned that her sister had faded away after her first baby, and he feared a sickly wife. Then the girl, “whom I loved with all my heart,” had disliked the theatre; worse still, she was jealous, and wept when Goldoni played his rôle and received the compliments due to his management of amateur performance. A few tears, a parting sigh, a tender reminiscence, and then away toward other experiences.

In Milan an adventuress could still beguile him into forgetting or neglecting his duty. Henceforth he allows no woman to interfere with his work. Rather he manages to find practical advantage in his love affairs. He is fond of actresses, and he has such necessity of pleasing them that he falls in love with several among them. Generally with the younger one who takes the part of the servetta.

His attachment to Madame Ferramont is typical. Goldoni wrote several rôles for the lady, and thus excited the jealousy of the other actresses; then the poor woman suddenly dies in childbirth. Goldoni is much affected, but finds unexpected comfort in mingling his tears with those of the lady’s husband. The same situation is repeated, later, after the death of another actress, Signora Baccherini, but then be it noted it is Goldoni’s wife who sympathises with and comforts her husband in his bereavement.

The only actress who for a time mastered his senses and his imagination is “la Passalacqua,”^[38] whom he pilloried in a satirical episode of his play Don Juan, and afterwards exposed to the readers of his Memoirs in a lengthy anecdote.

The episode is characteristically Venetian. Not precisely good looking, with green eyes, a full-developed figure, and a complexion which required a good deal of making up, Goldoni tells how he only meant to pay a visit to the lady, who was older than she wished to appear, and shrewder than he suspected; and how she persuaded him to step into a gondola, in order to enjoy the beautiful evening. Praise of the gondola has been sung ere now by poets and lovers, its gliding movement, its soothing complicity, the softness of its cushioned seats under the sheltering felze, all this and more have lovers appreciated in every time; and Goldoni was neither the first nor the last young man seduced by the combined allurements of a coquette and a row along the laguna by moonlight.

Only a few days later Goldoni learns that the lady is playing him false with Vitalba, the young actor who impersonates lovers on and off the stage. Goldoni keeps out of the way in proud disdain, until the lady sends for him, plays the grand scene of despair and remorse, without forgetting the dagger aimed at her breast, in the correct attitude for such moments of passion. Goldoni is no monster of cruelty, he cannot witness such despair, he rushes to her couch, bends his knee, swears, kisses, forgives, or is forgiven “et nous voilà comme auparavant.” Which means that he plays for some days longer the rôle of the greenhorn whom his mistress betrays, openly, with the comrade who knows all the tricks of the pretty play.

Goldoni turned the tables once more. He introduced a pastoral episode in the play that he was then staging, and thus forced the Signora Passalacqua and Vitalba to represent, in the presence of a well-informed audience, just the adventure of which they were the heroes. The profit, in the end, was all Goldoni’s. Besides recalling the episode to all the gossips and scandal mongers, who delighted in such anecdotes of theatrical people, this translation on to the scenic stage of a real event was excellent practice for the future realistic playwright.

His style changes, and the flippant intonation of other stories melts in a more delicate mood of mingled sentiment and reticent emotion, when Goldoni tells of his first meeting with Nicoletta Connio,^[39] and how he soon succeeded in becoming her husband. No dramatic incidents, no complications, the course of peaceful, honest love tending to marriage, and proceeding by prudent steps toward the happy ending. It reads like the sketch of one of his plays; and, like them, it is pervaded by a homely spirit. Goldoni had gone to Genova with the Imer troupe, and he had seen Signor Connio, a banker of no great means, but of very good reputation. From the window of the lodgings he occupies he observed, behind the opposite casement, a girl just pretty enough to please his eye and elicit from him a tender salute. She curtsies and withdraws, never to reappear again at the window. Such a demure behaviour must have charmed the young man, if only as a change from facile amours. It encouraged him to make his proposals, according to the fashion of the time, to the young lady’s father. A whole month for prudent investigations, and finally the wedding.

He could not have chosen better. The Connios were a good Genoese family, well known and well connected. Although Nicoletta did not bring him a dot, she secured for him the support of a solidly established father and brothers-in-law. Personally she was a most desirable wife—not the brilliant and flippant Venetian, but the steady and devoted stay-at-home, industrious Genoese, who could put up with scanty means, and yet, when the occasion called for some display, she could hold her own place without clumsiness or presumption in a subdued way that exactly filled Goldoni’s requirements and his taste. Her patience and devotion all through their long life was a comfort and a prop for the husband who realised her value, and requited in tenderness and regard his debt of love.

Goldoni spent the honeymoon in a high fever and a serious attack of smallpox. Nicoletta nursed him through it, and fortunately did not take the infection. Goldoni thanks her for this, as for the constant affection and devotion she lavished on him all through their lives. In an epistle^[40] to Signor Connio, which prefaces one of his plays—several years later—Goldoni praises Nicoletta. “She knows exactly when I want to be left alone, and when I want to be spoken to. Overwork and worry often make me cross and moody; she then bears with me, takes no notice, yet as soon as I recover my temper she is ready to meet me half way, with some amusing bit of news, some talk so as to sweep clean away all my vexation. We are the best of company to one another, just as we were in the first days of our marriage. I always discuss with her my plans, and ask for her advice about my plays, because I trust her to give me excellent suggestions and previsions.”

With even more tenderness and gratitude, in his old age Goldoni pays homage to the “woman who has been my comfort in every moment.” How few wives of celebrated men have earned such testimonials! Yet Goldoni was not a perfectly faithful husband; the customs of his time, and especially his profession, condoned unfaithfulness. Yet after every departure Goldoni returned to his dear Nicoletta, whom he set far above all other women. She was prudent enough to ignore these things, and wise enough to avoid complaining. On his part, Goldoni spared her feelings by every possible means.

Nicoletta was also a model daughter-in-law. The young pair settled in Venice, in October, 1736, in the modest house which Margherita Goldoni and her maiden sister already occupied.^[41] Nicoletta’s highest praise is that she managed to live in perfect peace with both. Goldoni enjoyed the rare privilege of having a quiet home, enlivened by the presence of three women who were rivals in their zeal for his comfort. It is difficult to exaggerate the beneficial effect of such an environment. When we see Goldoni so serenely impervious to the stings of calumny, to the arrows of bitter pamphleteers, so easily appeased after his short crises of wrath, so forgiving, let us remember that the font of his enviable equality of humour, the secret of his unflagging spirits, is not only within his happy nature and healthy temperament, but also in that inexhaustible spring of joy and courage,^[42] a happy home.

In such pleasant conditions, Goldoni made his début in Venice. His first comedy, in Venice, was warmly received, and his success was justified. Goldoni warmly praises his first interpreters; it is a debt of honour to those who have taught him the rudiments of their art. By living with his comedians “as a painter lives with his models” he learned many a useful lesson. These models are not automatons; under his eyes each acts his own rôle. They gossip and dispute and narrate their personal experience, and the quietly smiling author listens and notes every word, every look, and draws their portraits.

After taking them for models he used them as interpreters. He mentions Golinetti, the Pantalone, whose expressive physiognomy, he thinks, it is a pity to conceal under the traditional mask. Having noted the grace and elegance of his manners, he decided to employ him in the representation of a character that would be for the greatest part an imitation of the man himself. On this lucky hint, Momolo Cortesan was imagined and brought out. Another time Goldoni noticed that another Pantalone, Darbes, presented the useful singularity of changing completely his voice, manners, expression, and looks from one moment to another. At times a cheerful, spirited cavalier, at others a clumsy, moody fellow. Goldoni found the way to making it profitable. The old, old theme of twins, on the stage, could be thus rejuvenated and made as attractive as a novelty.

This method is typical of Goldoni’s talent. In temperament, as well as by education, Goldoni was inclined to accept guidance. He adapts external influences to his wants. Players trained to the difficult art of improvised comedy were apt to consider themselves as collaborating with the author, and even as leading in the partnership. Goldoni profited by their experience, and later on he was strong enough to check their presumption and enforce his own method, when he outgrew this first period of preparation.

We try, further in this study, to analyse what influence the “commedia dell’arte” exerted on Goldoni’s conception of his art; the advantage he derived from the comedians is almost as great.

Some of them were mere istrioni, only able to secure popular favour by using indelicate tricks and jokes, some merely repeated their rôles, according to the rules of tradition; but there were others who were not satisfied with repeating hackneyed speeches out of their zibaldone, or content exactly to reproduce the traditional personage; they wanted to stamp their impersonation of the old mask, or personage, with some original traits; they wanted to astonish their more learned hearers by classic quotations from poets and philosophers, and, in their improvisation, to interweave their borrowings so aptly as to form a mosaic work of art. Many possessed talent, and some were of superior merit.

Every man, says Goldoni, has a character of his own; if only the author gives him the opportunity of representing a fictitious character, in complete analogy with his natural one, success is sure to follow. As a general statement this principle is open to discussion; in Goldoni’s case it facilitated the reciprocal influence of the author on his interpreters, and it directed the formation of his own talent. Goldoni is an observer rather than a psychologist, he sees his personage from the outside; conceives, in parallel lines, the creation and the impersonation; the abstract personality is identified with the living one that acts and speaks and moves before him. At every step of Goldoni’s career the motive of each new inspiration can be traced back to the actor, or the actress, who was first to suggest and then to represent a character.

Goldoni was thus slowly but surely advancing as a playwriter. His name was just beginning to be well known to theatregoers, when, for reasons which he does not mention, he asked for, or accepted, the title and duties of “Genoese Consul in Venice.”^[43] Doubtless the appointment was due to the influence of the Connios, but there is no evidence whether Goldoni submitted to this honour or sought it.

It seems a contradiction to his often repeated assertion that the theatre was his unique attraction, and his vocation at all times irresistible, to find him giving up his prospects and turning to so different an occupation. In fact he was not absolutely obliged to discontinue writing for the stage, but besides a lack of time, the representative of “la Serenissima Repubblica di Genova” commissioned to transact all sorts of affairs with the other “Serenissima” of Venice could not continue to live on familiar terms with actors and actresses in the easy-going fashion Goldoni had adopted ever since his marriage.

He probably expected the place to be remunerative and also a stepping stone to still higher official promotion. Else Signor Connio would not have proposed, and Goldoni never accepted, this charge. Still less would he have enlarged his establishment and his expenses, in proportion to these expectations. Goldoni’s is a complex nature. He may have entertained the vanity of the middle classes for social distinction, and succumbed to the temptation of donning a court dress, and having a handle to his name.

Whatever his hopes and aims, he certainly performed with zeal and application all the duties his position involved. His foreign biographers have overlooked the documentary evidence which reveals Goldoni under this aspect. Out of Goldoni’s official despatches to the Genoese authorities it has been easy to trace the salient points of this career. He unravelled several affairs of importance, to the satisfaction of all parties concerned, and displayed courage, skill, and activity that will appear unexpected in him, if we were to judge him exclusively from his Memoirs.

Thus, for instance, in August, 1741, the consul of Genoa is able to obtain for the benefit of a Genoese skipper redress for an abuse of prerogative. “I found out that a decree of the Senate settles that whenever the captain of a Venetian ship has been licensed by the magistrate of cinque savi to load at a certain embankment, no foreign ship is allowed to come near this embankment until the Venetian has finished his loading, for which a whole month is granted.... Now the Venetian skippers, even when they were not ready for loading, used to get their license and thus stop the foreigners’ loading.” Against this ancient abuse a Genoese, Padron Leonardo Caffarelli, appealed “with tears” to his consul. Goldoni, remembering that he could don a barrister’s robe, assumed the office of attorney for his party with such success that the case was decided in his favour, the abuse was redressed, and the privilege recalled.

Instances of Goldoni’s kindness appear at every step of his career. Sometimes it is a miserable convict, formerly a priest, whom the Council of Ten would pardon, after twenty-two years of imprisonment, if only he could manage to pay the expenses of his trial, amounting to four hundred ducats. The consul does not possess this sum, but he begs for it and hopes, “with Divine assistance,” to set the poor man at liberty.

Another time it is the extreme severity of a sentence issued against two Genoese tramps, guilty of no greater sin than begging on the road, and sentenced by a zealous magistrate of Monfalcone in the Friul to eighteen months’ imprisonment. Goldoni “declares that the sentence is inhuman, exceeding the bounds of justice; hence he has appealed to the Venetian tribunal and expects to see the magistrate and the chancellor condemned and the poor devils set at liberty.”

More important and more complicated was the case of murder of Suzanne Dubic by her lover, René la Fère. The murderer, having taken refuge in the port of Genoa on board a Venetian ship, was apprehended with the consent of the Venetian consul, and carried before the Genoese magistrate. But the Venetian commonwealth was sensitive, and the Genoese did not care to give offence, so Goldoni conciliated the susceptibilities of both the Serenissime and saw that, without encroaching on the rights of the one, the other could try and eventually condemn the subject of the other. Goldoni is pleased with himself, and points out that it is due to his zeal that the affair did not drag on for months, but was despatched in a few days.

From December, 1740, to March, 1743, Goldoni held this place of consul. An unfortunate scrape brought this diplomatic career to a sudden end. About this abrupt close of an episode that seemed so promiseful, Goldoni intentionally makes a mess of dates and of motives. He talks of having discovered after three years—rather two and a half—that there was no fixed salary annexed to his charge. It is hard to believe that he did not enquire first, and so suddenly realised that he must give it up. There is also a story about some jewels that were pawned by his order, and then distrained by the broker, thus placing Goldoni in the difficult position of either paying for the larceny or of incurring the charge of complicity.

The story, as he tells it, is incredible, and its consequences remain unexplained; the real significance of the event and its importance in Goldoni’s life have been the object of patient researches that throw some light on that which really happened, and some more interesting light on Goldoni’s character.

Giampaolo, the scapegoat of the family, has a large share of responsibility in this affair. Giampaolo was then at home, which means living at his mother’s and brother’s house, after leaving the army, his casual profession. Now Goldoni, sitting quietly in his study, was startled one day by the sudden appearance of his brother, “rather red in the face, rather too bright in his looks,” certainly more noisy and rude than either mother or elder son desired. Giampaolo has made a friend in a few minutes, round a table and several bottles of wine, and wants to introduce this friend to his brother. Goldoni listens to the man’s story and he keeps him to dinner. Goldoni notes the green eyes, the pale face, the courtly ways that belie his assumed character of a captain, native of Ragusa, and on a recruiting tour.^[44]

The green-eyed visitor makes a dazzling proposal; he is commissioned by a State, which remains unnamed, to raise a corps of soldiers, he has letters of credit and other papers which he shows, bearing a royal signature. He allures Goldoni with the title in partibus of “Auditeur Général” of the corps; he promises Giampaolo a high rank. Thereupon he is invited to stay with the Goldonis and partake of their hospitality. Merchants of the city are persuaded to provide goods, officers enlist, Goldoni advances six thousand ducats, on the security of a bill which a firm of Venetian bankers have not yet honoured because the usual confirmation of credit by letter has not come.

The day after Goldoni’s payment, the captain vanishes. The several dupes he has made in Venice come clamouring at Goldoni’s door. Certainly the trick played on him was exasperating. Goldoni had every motive to be angry, but why does he run away post haste with his wife and brother?

On the shortest notice, just two days for packing, they make their departure, and never stop until they get clear out of the Venetian State.^[45] It has been suggested, and almost proved, that the impostor was really the agent of a foreign nation, the Two Sicilies. It seems probable that these levies of troops were sometimes effected with the connivance of some Venetian authority, and only punished when discovered in good time. It seemed preferable, often, to hush the scandal so as not to get the Government entangled. Punishment was likely to come suddenly and secretly, leaving out the bigger fish, but surely catching the smaller fry. Goldoni considered himself as belonging to the category of the smaller offenders, and he saw the advantage of getting quickly out of reach.

When he felt safe in Bologna, he wrote a comedy L’Impostore, which is the account he wanted people to believe; he avoided dangerous explanations. For once he found that it was safe to appear a fool, and he played his rôle to perfection. Goldoni may have been so advised, or he may have realised that his position was a dangerous one; he remained away for more than two years, under the most futile pretexts.

It appears also that he resigned his consulship at this time. Goldoni prudently refrains from explaining his real motives. He hastened to Rimini on hearing that the Duke of Modena was there “spending the winter at the Spanish camp.” Now why did he want so eagerly to join the Duke of Modena, if it were not that he meant to appeal, in his quality of a Modenese subject, to the protection of his sovereign? He admits that an audience was asked and granted; he admits that something was asked and denied. Something about the Modenese Ducal Bank and the payment of some shares he held. Why? The Goldonis’ funds in Modena and the management of their affairs were entrusted to their friend and relative, Signor Zavarisi, a notary, who could have arranged things without troubling the Duke. Certainly this special condition of the Goldonis, this double nationality, was an advantage, since they each and all through life paid for it the tax imposed on absentees in order to enjoy this privilege. Probably at this critical moment he sought protection from his presumptive sovereign.^[46]

This matter has little other importance except as showing Goldoni’s method of telling his own history, with all the reticence and mingling of fact and fiction that he deems fitting and proper. Having adopted this version of a whole affair in the preface of his plays, he did not care later, when he was safe from danger in Paris, to correct his first statement. Yet to leave Venice on such a short notice, to break all the ties of affection and friendship, the pleasant habits of social intercourse, and to wander away, with no definite aim, no clear prospect, must have been then a heart-breaking experience. Little wonder, indeed, if Goldoni’s health gave way under all the worries then attending all travel, and all the misery and apprehension that certainly embittered this one. The elasticity of his resourceful nature and naturally sanguine disposition helped him to recover his balance. He soon shook himself free of Giampaolo’s undesirable company and “endeavoured”—as he says—“to forget past evils and think of a brighter future.”

Here begins in the Memoirs a long series of anecdotes detailing Goldoni’s wanderings across those regions of Italy then disquieted by wars fought by foreigners, for aims that were of no interest to a Venetian. A considerable amount of pleasant reading, of amusing anecdotes, that provide almost no reliable information as to events related, almost no insight into Goldoni’s real conditions.^[47] Just as in Bologna he tried to assume an attitude, to make fun of his own simplicity, in the comedy L’Impostore, so in his Memoirs he now describes his travels.

Whether he went to the Spanish camp in Rimini to meet a troupe of players, as he suggests, or whether he hastened there to throw himself at the Duke of Modena’s feet, he found a cheering welcome. Spaniards were eminently qualified to appreciate Italian plays and players. They were as lavish of their praise as of their money; they could bend their knees to kiss a lady’s hand and were glib in their compliments, and as ready for suppers, dances, and parties as Goldoni, or any other Venetian could wish.

But a few months later, in the same Rimini, Goldoni will be the paid entertainer and playwright of the Austrians; and contrasting them to his former hosts, the Spaniards, he notes that they did not bend their knees to the ladies, that they were noisier and ruder in their love-making and in their pleasures, but withal just as acceptable to Goldoni’s unruffled national feelings.

Nicoletta did not enjoy this sort of life. She never cared for social entertainments, and objected to German manners. She may also have objected to her husband’s preference for a pretty actress, Bonaldi, a former flame of his, whom he found in Rimini, and employed in the rôles of servetta. Goldoni, protesting that he was a most loving husband and that he shared with his wife all his pleasures, records that the only house wherein she would not accompany him was this one. “She did not prevent my going, but she did not like the lady.” A wise woman was Nicoletta. She knew where to draw a line, even while she allowed her wanton Carlo as much liberty as was good for them both.

When the Austrians left Rimini, more than a year had elapsed since his flight from Venice, yet Goldoni hesitated to go back. If he longed for his home and for his mother’s company, he did not care to recall attention to himself until the unlucky recruiting affair was forgotten by the Inquisitor.

“I wished to see Tuscany; I longed to visit Florence and Siena, and also to dwell some length of time in these cities, in order to improve my style of language, by a greater familiarity with the pure Italian spoken by the Florentines and the Sienese.” Both a wish and a necessity, with Goldoni, as indeed with other writers of his own country, not excepting Manzoni. Yet if the need is proved by Goldoni’s clumsy Italian, the wish is not so evident. The Goldonis visited several Tuscan cities;^[48] they made acquaintances here, and they were welcomed and entertained at several places, and finally settled down in Pisa.

The Memoirs contain very little interesting information about this trip in Tuscany. Goldoni has no eye for the beauties of scenery and scarcely notices the social conditions of the people. There is no description of places or persons, no account of literary movements, as evidently none fixed his attention, with the single exception of Perfetti’s extempore poetry.

Some affinity of temperament, or simply Goldoni’s admiration for extensive and varied knowledge, must account for his enthusiastic praise of a performance that, by other critics, was considered merely a clever trick. Goldoni thus recommends to immortality “le Chevalier Perfetti—one of those poets who can improvise poetry, and who are only to be found in Italy. He was so far above any other, and he added so much science, elegance, and facility to his versification that he should be entitled to the honour of a crowning in the Capitol, honour which was granted to no one after Petrarch.”

Goldoni was invited on the day of Assumption to hear the poet improvising in the hall of the Intronati—the Sienese Academy. “Perfetti was sitting on a sort of a chair; one of the Members of the Academy addressed him, and as he could not stray far from the subject that solemnised the day chosen by the Academy for this gathering, he proposed the argument: The Angels rejoicing at the approach of the Virgin’s immaculate body.”

Goldoni does not draw the obvious deduction that the poet was expecting such a theme to be proposed on this appointed day; but he further extols Perfetti by setting him above “Petrarch, Milton, Rousseau” (meaning, of course, Jean Baptiste) and even above Pindar himself! This extravagant praise, testifying to Goldoni’s impulsive, warm-hearted nature, is also evidence of his scanty book learning, of his wretched critical sense, else he could never have mistaken such bombast for eloquence.

Président des Brosses, after listening to one of these extempore recitals, gave some praise to the poet’s talent, but limited it by adding “Vous devez croire vraiment qu’il y a lá dessous beaucoup plus de mots que de choses.” Posterity has ratified this judgment by ignoring altogether the man Goldoni compared to Pindar and Milton! Goldoni’s excuse being that he could read neither.

A few lines about Florence and a few more for Volterra, a short description of the catacombs, or rather of the impression caused by a visit to these subterranean crypts, and then half a page for Pisa. He says that he did not mean to stop here longer than a few days, but on learning that he could, by resuming his former profession of lawyer and by opening a legal “studio,” provide for his wants, he settled down in Pisa and practised law there about three years.

One more turning, one more tacking and shifting round of his sails that plainly contradicts his repeated statement of irresistible attraction toward the theatre, if the circumstance that bade him keep well away from Venice is overlooked. A vocation for the theatre was undoubtedly latent in Goldoni’s brain and in his heart, but he also and for not utterly dissimilar motives inclined toward the barrister’s profession. The craving for immediate success and popular applause found much the same satisfaction in both callings; the gifts that fitted him for the one also equipped him for the other calling; both offered opportunities for a display of the ready wit, easy flow of language, promptness of repartee that were his natural qualities, and for the subtle interpretation of character and facts, the acute observation of men and events, that were so thoroughly Goldonian.

If we were to study Goldoni as a writer of Italian prose, and were comparing him to his contemporaries, it might be worth the trouble to quote some fragments of his oratorial style, preserved by one of his Pisan admirers, but since we are merely concerned with Goldoni, the author of comedies, the flowery images and bombastic phrasing may be omitted. It was the sort of thing that was expected from a barrister, the sort of language that appealed to the Magistrates. Goldoni used it until he discovered a more suitable and personal style of address, and his growing mastery of his art helped him to discern when it was time to change. His Memoirs contain the account of several lawsuits on which he was engaged while in Pisa. Goldoni’s literary preparation was rather advanced than hindered by his legal career. A short and honourable career it proved to be, profitable in many ways. It assisted in the evolution of Goldoni’s mind by giving opportunity for seeing some of the sterner aspects of life, and further by bringing him into close contact with men of letters, scholars, and even dilettanti, of whom there were many then in Pisa.

The greater benefit to Goldoni’s literary improvement came through his admission into the Pisan colony of Arcadia. The question is too complex and involves too much that is irrelevant in Goldoni’s case here to discuss the merits of Arcadia. It is enough to record that it aimed very high, even while the means adopted appeared ludicrously puerile, and that it produced some good results, even though it did not fulfil the ambitious program first proclaimed in Rome.

In Goldoni’s case, initiation to its ceremonies led to much practical advantage by introducing him to persons that could appreciate and encourage him and direct his choice of models. Thus, if Arcadia did not realise the larger purpose of abolishing triviality, or fighting against classicism, if it could not create any new ideal of art and literature, still it helped to promote the idea of Italian unity by establishing a spiritual bond, linking together many small intellectual groups within cities that, but for their Arcadian colony, would have been almost ignorant of the existence of one another. Of such filmy threads was slowly woven the great ideal chain into which was finally reunited, under one flag, the long severed members of the Italian nation.

It was, as he says, quite by chance that Goldoni happened to walk through an open gate into a beautiful garden, wherein the shepherds of Arcadia were holding their assembly. The sight of several coaches in waiting attracted him, his fondness for society urged him on toward the group of listeners, his taste for improvised poetry kept him on the spot. If surprised, he was not unprepared. A sonnet composed on some former occasion he instantly adapted, and delivered as an improvisation. Goldoni was already a master in this facile art which his contemporaries held in great esteem. His improvisation, or the adaptation of his sonnet, was probably as good as anything produced in the Fegeian colony, wherein he was soon admitted with the usual formalities and more than the usual compliments. He was given the name of Polisseno Fegeio, duly registered in a diploma; he was also given a charter “investing him with the Fegeian lands.” He playfully explains that “We are rich, as you can see, my dear reader; we the Shepherds of Arcadia; we own lands in Greece; we water them with the sweat of our brows, and we reap laurel boughs; the Turks sow wheat, and grow vines on them and laugh at our titles and our songs.”

Goldoni, too, laughed at his title and made light of the Arcadian diploma afterward, but at the time he was proud enough and glad enough of getting them; for some time afterwards he liked to inscribe both his Arcadian name and qualification on the title-page of his printed works, and on the tickets of the several theatres that produced his plays. What is even more probant of Goldoni’s indebtedness to Arcadia is the trace left in his style by the peculiar æsthetics of the Academy. Not merely in his lighter compositions—sonnets, capitoli, and other occasional pieces—can we see the flowered images and ultra-refined sentimentalism of Arcadia, but also in many scenes of his comedies, where they jar discordantly with the general realistic and unconventional intonation.

Neither the charms of Arcadian meetings, nor the society of literati, nor even the profits and reasonable expectations of his career at the Pisan bar could entirely satisfy Goldoni’s desires. Venice and the theatre were ever present to his mind; the temptation could be restrained for a time, it was not stifled. It blazed forth irresistibly when Sacchi—the great Sacchi—asked for a play, anticipating payment, in the thorough matter-of-fact way that ignores refusal, and suggested the argument with the authority his established fame entitled him to. What else could Goldoni do than comply? What else than compose play or scenario and realise that this indeed was pleasure in work, or work in pleasure, for him?

Then when Sacchi wrote back telling of his great success in the farcical comedy wherein he had impersonated Brighella, servant of two masters at the same time, and asking for another play in which he meant to appear in a serious character and appeal by pathetic situations to the audience’s feelings, what else could Goldoni do than take up an old play of his and rearrange it for Sacchi? Goldoni resisted some time the temptation. The two plays written for Sacchi did not immediately bring a change. He plodded over his briefs, and pored over his codes; but his heart was not in his work, and, for a man of Goldoni’s temper, this sort of thing was unbearable.

He tried to persuade himself first, and then his readers, that some sort of wrong was done to him when he was denied promotion after the death of a colleague invested with many charges, Goldoni recording on almost the same page that “he had briefs in all the courts of the town, clients in every rank of society, noblemen of the first nobility, citizens of wealth, merchants of large credit, curates, friars, even big farmers, and also one of his brethren who, being implicated in a difficult criminal prosecution, chose me for his advocate”; it seems that he might have overlooked the real or presumed wrong. What information he may have received from Venice, and what encouragement to prompt his return, he does not record.

As fate would have it, Nicoletta was not at hand when the irresistible temptation walked into Goldoni’s room under the burly, pleasant figure of an actor, Darbes. Nicoletta was away, on a visit to her people in Genoa, a visit which had been first planned by both, but eventually given up by Goldoni on the plea of finishing his play for Sacchi. Would Goldoni have listened to her advice if, being near him at the time, she had pleaded against the folly of giving up the honourable career of the law for the more venturesome profession of playwriting and stage managing? There is no telling. Nicoletta was so prudent and sensible that she might have guessed the uselessness of opposition. The woman who possessed tact enough to know “when it was better to speak and when it was better to stand by in silence” could not stake the peace of her household against the formidable enemy of a poetical vocation attended with all the allurements of behind-the-scene life to back it.

With what evident relish Goldoni details the visit of Darbes, “a man nearly six feet tall and broad in proportion, crossing the room with a cane in his hand and a round hat.” How playfully he notes all the funny gestures and tricks of the artist, all the comic posture and bombastic talk that sounded in his ear like the hunter’s horn to the eager hounds.

“He laid hold of my snuff box while we were talking, took snuff from it, slipped into it several ducats, shut it again, then threw it down on the table with one of those gestures that are meant to betray an action even when they pretend to disguise it.”

And then his first introduction to the Medebach troupe. How full of youthful gaiety, with unspoken hopes!

Was it only the prospect of working for a stage manager that thus elated Goldoni’s heart? Was it not also the sense of freedom coming upon him with some tidings from Venice and showing him that the path was open for him, that his adventure was forgotten, buried under the dust of police archives, and that he could at last return to Venice, to his mother, to his actors and actresses, to the joys and pleasures of that Venetian life, the equivalent of which he had found nowhere else in Italy, and was never to find elsewhere?

[20] Apostolo Zeno, 1668-1730, has an honourable place among historians and scholars. He was a precursor of Muratori, pioneer investigator and interpreter of documents; he was also a collectionneur. To Goldoni he most opportunely gave that which Goldoni calls “des corrections muettes.” The anecdote is to be found in Mem. i, ch. xli. Goldoni wrote a lyrical tragedy bearing the title “Gustavo Wasa” and carried it to Zeno “lately returned from Vienna,” where “Metastasio remained as his successor.” “I found this worthy scholar (Zeno) in his studio; he welcomed me politely, listened to the reading of my play without uttering a word... After finishing I asked his opinion. ‘It is good,’ said he, ‘for the fair of la Senza.’ ” Goldoni understood that the manuscript was pronounced only good for popular festivities. Zeno wrote about sixty dramas and twenty oratorios, all now forgotten, though they exerted a powerful influence on the evolution of the Italian theatre. He founded the “Giornale de Letterati d’Italia,” which lasted from 1710 to 1718.

[21] Pietro Metastasio, 1698-1782: His great fame influenced Goldoni’s career. Like Goldoni he was born in the petite bourgeoisie, like Goldoni he read for the law and held office, and was admitted into Arcadia. “Artino Corasio”: His fame was European until fashion turned and ridiculed his sentimental compositions; but now the pathos and metrical form of his lyrical dramas, the sweet cadence of his shorter poems, are again admired. (See Vernon Lee’s, E. Masi’s, and O. Tommasini’s studies.)

Goldoni says in his Memoirs, part i, chap. xxi, “The operas of Metastasio were then performed everywhere, even without any music”; and in another chapter (xli) he extravagantly praises his work. To Metastasio Goldoni reverently dedicated his play, obtaining in return this handsome acknowledgment: “... your friendship is such a gift that it is accepted with joy at whatever title it is offered.” For an analysis of Metastasio’s works see Stendhal, La Vie de Metastasio. Carducci has also praised Metastasio. I Corifei della Canzonetta nel Secolo XVI, vol. xviii, in Antologia di Critica Letterari Moderna.

[22] Pietro Pariati, a native of Reggio, driven from his native city by the persecution of Rinaldo d’Este, came to Venice in 1699, thence to Vienna, where he was the only court poet until Zeno joined him.

[23] Mem., part i, chap. xxvi: “I lacked the means for settling and keeping house.... I explained matters to my mother; she realised with overflowing eyes that some energetic measure was required to save me from ruin (allusion to an almost incredible story of entanglement). She mortgaged her estate in order to pay my debts in Venice. I transferred to her my estate in Modena for her wants and I resolved to leave.... After my most flattering début at the Palace (of Justice) in the midst of my success at the bar, I leave my country, my relatives, my paramours, my expectations, my position; I leave and only stop at Padua. The first step was over, the others cost me nothing, thanks to my happy disposition, with the exception of my mother I forgot everything.”

[24] For date of departure see preface to vol. x, Pasquali Edition. “After eight months of my reception,” May 20, 1732. Hence toward the end of the same year.

[25] See note on Parmenione Trissino.

[26] The Memoirs record: “This Minister was not the only one in charge. Another man was sent from Venice at the same time, in the same city, a Senator bearing the title of Provveditore Straordinario; both vying in efforts for getting information and for sending to the Senate the surest and latest news (Mem., part i, chap. xxi). The Minister took advantage of this opportunity for dismissing his Secretary whom he disliked and entrusting me with this commission ... (Memoirs, part i, chap. xxxi). We got every day some ten or twelve letters and sometimes even twenty.... It was my duty to read them, to make extracts, and out of them to compose an official despatch, grounded on the intelligence that seemed most reliable....”

Goldoni records with satisfaction that in these occupations he acquired much knowledge “diplomatic and political,” knowledge which he found most useful later for his consulship.

[27] The war alluded to was fought by Carlo Emanuele of Sardinia (the title then of the House of Savoy, allied to Louis XIV of France) against Emperor Charles VI. See Muratori, Annali d’Italia, vii, page 379. Venice, 1848.

[28] For card playing in Venice, see analysis of Il Giuocatore. Several anecdotes in the Memoirs make amusing pictures of customs, yet they should be accepted with caution. Goldoni first told them to amuse his readers in various prefaces, then selected them to pad his volumes of Memoirs. See for instance part i, chap. xxi, a narrative of journey from Feltre to Bagnacavallo (page 128, original text).

[29] The story of this entanglement with “a young and pretty Venetian” fills many pages of the Memoirs, chaps. xxx, xxxiii, xxxiv, but seems not to have deeply affected Goldoni’s heart, though possibly the signora is in some degree responsible for his dismissal. Any other such incident might have caused the same result. Goldoni wanted only an excuse.

[30] “On coming home, I met one of the Resident’s servants. They had been asking for me everywhere. The Resident had been up since five in the morning, having sent for me. He had been told that I had been out all night. He was very angry. I run to my room, take both the folios, and bring them to the Minister. He receives me ungraciously. He even suspects me of having shown the King of Sardinia’s Manifesto to the Provveditore Straordinario of the Venetian Republic. This charge offends me, and grieves me. I lose my temper—a most unusual weakness in me. The Minister threatens to have me apprehended. I hurry out of the place. I go straight to seek asylum with the Bishop of the city. The Bishop takes my part, and offers to make my peace with the Resident. I thank him, but I had made up my mind. I only wanted to be justified and to depart” (Memoirs, I, chap. xxxii).

[31] “His name was Bonafede Vitali, from the city of Parma; he went under the name of the Anonym. He belonged to a good family” (Memoirs, part i, chap. xxix). For B. Vit. see in “Numero Unico, Carlo Goldoni” a paper by A. D’Ancona, “Una Macchietta Goldoniana” (Venice, 1883), also “Biografia degli Italiani illustri di E. di Tipaldo, Venezia,” 1837, pp. 292-299.

[32] For Casali, Rubini, and indeed for every actor mentioned see Luigi Rasi, op. cit. In preface to vol. xiii of Pasquali’s edition, Goldoni says that Casali “was an honourable gentleman, endowed with great cleverness and professional ability, a fine figure and face, a pleasant voice and beautiful pronunciation.”

[33] Goldoni in his Memoirs (see part i, chap. xxxiv) mentions that the ancient Arena, “a Roman monument, whether of the Trajan or Domitian times one cannot tell,” was still so well preserved that it was used as a theatre just as it was “in the first time of its building.” This statement is not accurate. The arena was reduced to smaller proportions and more practical use by the erection in its midst of a raised platform, wooden wings, etc. An engraving of this Veronese theatre may be seen in the reproduction of vol. xii of Pasquali’s edition, or in the splendid new edition of Venice. A description of such arrangements is in the well-informed volumes of L. Rasi, “I Comici Italiani,” op. cit., I, 590.

[34] Imer, see Memoirs, part i, chap. xxiv. Goldoni represents Imer as an artist who could conquer nature. He was successful both as a manager of this Grimani troupe and as actor and singer. “With his short, thick neck, his small eyes and turned-up nose, he was ridiculous in serious parts ....” Imer “knowing no music could sing well enough; he learned his part by heart, caught the intonation and time, and made up for his lack of knowledge and of voice by his ability in counterfeiting, by the funny style of his dress and his impersonation of characters” (Preface to vol. xiii, ed. Pasquali).

[35] One Grimani Gian Pietro was Doge of Venice from 1741 to 1751, viz., the decisive moment when Venice by adopting the policy of neutrality lost the chance of asserting her rights in the wars of succession of Austria after the death of Maria Theresa.

Goldoni’s Grimani was Michele, a patrician and a Senator, the owner of two theatres, San Moise and San Giovanni Grisostomo. Goldoni says in his Memoirs, part i, chap. xxxiv: “Sr. Grimani was the most polite man of the world; he had none of that haughtiness which wrongs the great and humbles the poor. By birth illustrious, by his talents esteemed, he only wanted to be loved; his kindness captivated every heart.” It was said that Goldoni represented him in Il Prodigo under the character of easy-going, imprudent Momolo.

[36] For this influence of relatives over Goldoni’s career, and indeed over that of every other man in Venice, in the eighteenth century, see the whole of Goldoni’s works and pictures of customs; in Gaspare Gozzi’s essays, in Nievo’s novel, in every document of the time.

For Goldoni’s family see the notes by Ehrman von Löhner: Modena, etc., op. cit., also an essay by Lazzari in “Rivista d’Italia,” Roma, Feb., 1907: “Il Padre di Goldoni.” Also “Fogli Sparsi del Goldoni” by A. G. Spinelli.

[37] Some of Goldoni’s biographers have recorded all the love passages he relates in his Memoirs. Believing that they were mostly invented or exaggerated, we omit them from this interpretation of his character and life. They are amusing pictures, complementary scenes of comedy, and as such we give a few of them elsewhere.

[38] La Passalacqua—Elisabetta Moreri d’Affisio. Bartoli in his “Notizie istoriche de Comici Italiani,” op. cit., i, 1-2, says that she could sing in Operas and in Intermezzi; that she could perform the favourite dance “della Bandiera” and also fence with wonderful skill. Goldoni says that in the troupe she was entrusted with parts as a singer and with others as a “soubrette.” He further says that “sa voix étoit fausse, sa manière monotone,” her manners ungraceful yet with all that ... a gondola and some coquetry enslaved him at least for a short time.

[39] Nicoletta Maria was the daughter of Agostino Connio, a Genoese notary, or attorney. She was the eldest of five children. Besides the short but always grateful and affectionate allusions contained in the Memoirs and Letters Goldoni paid homage to his beloved wife in the preface to vol. xv, ed. Pasquali, dated 1761, though probably written later—a detailed narrative of his first acquaintance with Nicoletta, their discreet love-making and marriage. As soon as Goldoni recovered from the smallpox they left for Venice, which they reach on the ninth of October, “landing at Santa Mater Domini at a house over the bridge of this name which my mother had fitted for us and where she and my aunt were already expecting us. Our welcome was hearty; the affection and peace, the perfect harmony which reigned between these three women, was an example.”

[40] This letter to Agostino Connio is the dedication of La Donna Sola, first printed in the “Nuovo Teatro” etc., in Venice, in 1758, but which, like every other preface or dedication, can be read in the classical edition of Goldoni’s plays lately edited in Venice, op. cit.

[41] Goldoni with his wife, mother, and aunt, Maria Salvioni, settled in a house belonging to one Degna, in Salizzada (Salizzada, a corruption of selciato, a street paved with flags, not cobbled with smaller stones), San Lio, where he lived until the year 1740.

[42] Goldoni is very reticent about his private affairs. He scarcely mentions his peaceful home life. His Memoirs are merely the painstaking rehearsal of incidents written for the public eye, omitting those deeper feelings he holds sacred. When William D. Howells, in his clever introduction to Goldoni’s Memoirs, speaks of “fulness and frankness” he does not seem to have rightly interpreted the principal character of this work. All the pretty story-telling, if sifted and weighed, gives but a minimum of information and just the smallest amount of real “confession” such a composition can yield.

[43] See Belgrano, “Il Matrimonio e il Consolato di C. Goldoni,” in Imbreviature di Giovanni Scriba, Genova, 1882. Memoirs, part i, chap. xliii, “When the consulate of Genoa at Venice was offered to me, I accepted with gratitude and respect, without enquiring about the emoluments of the office.” Which sounds unlikely. A few lines lower, Goldoni writes, “I increased my domestic establishment, my table, and my retinue ....” Of course he was expected to meet Ministers and other official personages but it was not customary to entertain them privately. There were even laws forbidding officials visiting at the houses of foreign ambassadors.

[44] The personage of the avventuriero is not found in Goldoni’s plays, but here in these Memoirs (chapter xliv) is a prose portrait worth reading: “This man had more the appearance of a courtier than a soldier. He was sleek, sweet-spoken, extremely polite; his complexion was pale, his face thin, his nose aquiline, and his eyes small, round, and greenish. He was very courteous and paid great attention to the ladies, holding grave discourse with the aged ones and saying pretty trifles to the young ones. And with all that never losing a good morsel at meals. We took coffee at table and my brother put me in mind of every bottle of liquor there was in the house for the sake of his friend....”

Coffee was never taken round the table, still less was wine called for after dinner in respectable Venetian houses. Goldoni notes this infraction to common use as giving a more special colouring to this unusual visitor.

[45] Dates get terribly mixed in Goldoni’s Memoirs. The date, July, 1743, is the most probable, because on the sixteenth of this month Goldoni was in Rimini signing in the register of the curia vescovile the baptismal act of Margherita Bonaldi, the offspring of “Colombina, a fresh and attractive brunette, who was the soubrette of the troupe ... it was my fate.”

[46] About Goldoni’s affairs in Modena see the volume edited by the Modenese municipality, “Goldoni a Modena,” op. cit.

[47] Many pretty little stories of adventures are to be found in the Memoirs, referring to these wanderings with Nicoletta. One of the prettiest (Memoirs, part i, chap. xlvi) is placed in the neighbourhood of Cattolica, where the Austrians had entered and seized the luggage of our travellers. “The loss was irreparable for me; my wife and myself were very well provided with clothes, we had three trunks, two portmanteaux and boxes and handboxes and now we were left without a shirt.” Goldoni undertakes to go and recover his goods. He does not see why Austrians should not be as willing to assist him as Spaniards. He finds a vetturale, obtains a passport, and starts with his wife who is quite willing to follow him—“the situation of a woman who loses all at once—her jewels, dresses, and everything belonging to her—may be easily imagined.”

“I ordered the driver to stop while we alighted for a moment, but the rascal turned the horses immediately, set off at a gallop toward Pesaro, leaving us in the middle of the highway, without any resource nor any hope to find any. Not a living soul was to be seen. Not a peasant in the fields, not a single inhabitant in the houses, every one feared the approach of the two armies and kept well out of their way. My wife was weeping. I looked to heaven and felt inspired.”

They walk on some time and come to a stream.

“There was a small wooden bridge across it, but the planks were broken. The stream seemed rather too deep to be forded by my wife, still I would not be disconcerted. I stooped down, bid her put both her arms round my neck. I rose smiling, crossed over the stream with inexpressible joy, and said to myself, ‘Omnia bona mea mecum porto.’ My feet and legs were wet but I did not care....”

Another stream, another ford, and a long walk for untrained Venetians. At last they come in sight of the sea, an old friend of theirs, and a fisherman’s boat. “A second circumstance was not less agreeable. A branch of a tree attached to a cottage announced the possibility of getting some refreshment; we procured milk, new-laid eggs, etc.”

A branch suspended over a doorstep is even to-day the sign for an osteria all over Italy. Hence the proverb “buon vino non ha bisogno di frasca”—good wine does not require a branch—meaning that when a place is furnished with good wine the neighbours do not require to be told where it is.

The Memoirs tell at length how Goldoni and his wife met with a kind welcome at the Austrian camp. There he stayed and did some work.

[48] For Goldoni in Florence see Ademollo, Corilla Olimpica, Florence, 1887, which contains anecdotes about Arcadians and literati in Florence at the end of Settecento. Président des Brosses, “Lettres Familières,” Paris, 1885, vol. i. For Goldoni in Pisan Arcadia see V. Cian in “Miscellanea di erudizione,” Pisa, 1915, fsc. 2.